THE  OLD  CARD 


THE   OLD    CARD 


BY 


ROLAND  PERTWEE 


BONI     AND     LIVERIGHT 
NEW    YORK  19*9 


PUBLISHED,  1919, 
BY  BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  INC. 


Printed  in  the  U.S.A. 


TO 
MY  SON 

AND  HIS  GODFATHER 

HENRY  AINLEY 


2137615 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

A  FEW  ELEMENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  BIG  CHANCE i 

II.    PISTOLS  FOR  Two 20 

III.  A  CURE  THAT  WORKED  WONDERS  ....  40 

IV.  THE  ELIPHALET  TOUCH 64 

V.    GETTING  THE  BEST 96 

VI.    QUICKSANDS  OF  TRADITION 113 

VII.    GAS  WORKS 135 

PART  II 

AND  A  ROUGH  COMPOUND 

III.    MORNICE  JUNE 155 

IX.    A  REVERSIBLE  FAVOUR 178 

X.    THE  DEAR  DEPARTED 198 

XI.    CLOUDS        227 

XII.    THE  LAST  CURTAIN 253 


FOREWORD 

A  VISIT  to  any  modern  French  Art  Gallery  will  reveal  a 
number  of  canvases  daubed  all  over  with  little  patches 
of  primary  colours,  almost  as  though  the  picture  had  been 
painted  with  confetti.  Assuming  you  are  unaccustomed  to 
this  form  of  application,  you  will  declare  against  it  with 
insular  promptitude.  But  give  the  picture  a  chance — 
step  back  and  view  it  from  the  far  wall,  and  like  as  not  you 
will  find  that  these  chaotic  colours  have  blended  and  co- 
mingled,  have  ceased  to  exist  as  individual  items  and 
become  merged  in  a  single  statement  of  meaning  the  artist 
intended  to  convey. 

It  is  not  always  want  of  a  single  material  that  persuades 
the  fashioning  of  a  patchwork  quilt.  Patchwork,  in  its 
way,  is  as  complete  as  are  the  green  plush  curtains  that 
hang  so  soberly  from  the  lacquered  pole  in  your  neigh- 
bour's parlour. 

There  is  a  motive  in  this  preamble;  I  did  not  leap  from 
a  canvas  to  a  patchwork  quilt  without  purpose.  When 
you  have  read  these  pages,  if  so  be  you  have  the  patience 
and  inclination,  you  will  perceive  what  that  motive  is. 
Let  me  then  forestall  the  inevitable  criticism,  "Why,  this 
is  but  a  series  of  events  strung  together  by  a  mere  thread 
of  personality,"  and  say  at  once,  "Agreed;  but  that  was 
the  intention."  And  I  would  ask  you  to  hold  out  the 

vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

book  at  arm's  length,  get  a  fair  perspective,  and  admit  that 
it  was  not  possible  to  deal  with  the  subject  otherwise,  and 
that  these  disjointed  clippings  tumble  together  in  a  kind 
of  united  whole. 

The  life  of  a  touring  actor  is  as  no  other  man's.  It  is 
a  series  of  ever-changing  pictures  connected  only  by  the 
Sunday  train-journey.  The  most  we  can  do  is  to  catch 
a  glimpse  here  and  there  as  he  halts  upon  the  Road. 

Here,  then,  are  a  few  such  glimpses  for  your  approval 
or  contempt. 

ROLAND  PERTWEE. 
B.E.F., 
France,  1917.     . 


THE  OLD  CARD 

PART  L    A  FEW  ELEMENTS 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  BIG  CHANCE 

r?LIPHALET  CARDOMAY  stepped  from  his  first-class 
•*— *  compartment  to  the  platform.  Potter,  his  dresser, 
having  descended  from  the  train  while  it  was  still  in  motion, 
respectfully  held  open  the  carriage  door  lest  his  august 
master  should  soil  his  beautiful  wash-leather  gloves. 

It  was  gratifying  to  observe  how  the  station  porters 
touched  their  caps. 

On  the  seat  of  the  compartment  he  had  vacated  lay  an 
open  suit-case,  several  brown-paper-covered  plays,  copies 
of  the  Era  and  the  Referee,  an  umbrella  and  a  travelling 
cap.  It  was  part  of  the  dresser's  duties  to  clear  up  the 
debris  occasioned  by  Mr.  Cardomay.  A  man  who  carries 
in  his  head  all  the  emotions  and  all  the  lines — Hamlet,  Rich- 
ard III.,  The  SUver  King,  and  countless  other  roles  of 
lesser  importance — could  hardly  be  expected  to  give  atten- 
tion to  such  a  trifling  matter  as  his  own  personal  property. 

Eliphalet  accepted  a  bundle  of  letters  from  an  obsequi- 
ous advance  agent,  returned,  with  condescension,  the  ten- 

i 


2  THE    OLD    CARD 

tative  salutes  of  several  members  of  his  company,  and 
passed  down  the  long  grey  platform  with  springing  step. 
The  yellow  smoke  of  the  Midlands  was  as  violets  to  his 
nostrils  and  as  balm  to  his  eyes. 

With  quiet  satisfaction  he  noted  how  the  ticket-collector 
at  the  barrier,  instead  of  demanding  his  ticket,  allowed 
him  to  pass  with  a  polite  "Good  morning,  Sir."  After  all, 
it  is  something  to  be  known. 

Mr.  Cardomay  invariably  walked  to  his  lodging,  thereby 
giving  a  large  section  of  his  future  public  the  opportunity 
of  studying  his  features  at  close  range,  unadorned  by  the 
artifices  of  the  make-up  box  or  the  beneficent  influences 
of  limelight.  This  walk  also  gave  him  a  chance  of  seeing 
whether  the  effect  of  his  billing  justified  the  cost. 

For  twenty-five  years  had  Eliphalet  Cardomay  "featured 
on  the  road,"  and  there  was  little  left  for  him  to  learn 
about  Provincial  Theatrical  Management. 

The  poster  which  preceded  him  to  town  displayed  a 
well-proportioned  man,  whose  head  tilted  fearlessly  upon 
broad  shoulders,  and  whose  eyes  shone  as  with  a  smoulder- 
ing fire.  A  full  growth  of  hair  projected  from  under  the  curv- 
ing brim  of  a  Trilby  hat.  He  wore  a  flowing  tie,  a  fur- 
collared  coat,  and  in  his  right  hand  carried  an  ivory-topped 
Malacca  cane  of  original  design.  It  was  a  striking  poster, 
executed  many  years  before,  and  everyone  who  knew  it, 
and  knew  Eliphalet,  marvelled  how  the  original  still  con- 
tinued to  realise  the  picture  in  every  detail. 

The  reader  will  have  judged,  and  judged  rightly,  that 
our  hero  is  one  of  the  Old  School — the  school  of  graceful 
calisthenics,  and  meticulous  elocution — but  let  him  beware 
of  anticipating  too  far;  for,  although  Eliphalet  Cardomay 's 
histrionics  might  savour  of  the  obsolete,  he  will  not  find 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  3 

in  the  man  himself  those  traits  usually  allied  to  actors  of 
this  calibre. 

In  all  his  long  career  no  one  had  ever  heard  Eliphalet 
address  a  fellow-performer  as  "laddie,"  nor  a  theatrical  land- 
lady as  "Ma."  Neither  did  he  borrow  half-crowns  at  the 
Bodega,  nor  absorb  tankards  of  Guinness's  stout  in  the 
wings.  In  fact,  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  a  very  estimable 
fellow,  hedged  about  and  wing-clipped  by  stale  conventions 
of  his  calling,  which,  in  spite  of  his  bitterly-learnt  knowl- 
edge of  their  existence,  he  was  never  able  to  supersede  by 
modern  methods. 

The  almost  impertinent  disregard  for  old  stage  processes 
and  old  accepted  technique  which  brings  notoriety  and 
admiration  to  the  actor  of  to-day  was  as  unattainable  to 
Eliphalet  as  the  peak  of  Mount  Parnassus. 

Twenty-five  years  before,  a  London  newspaper  had  pro- 
phesied that  he  would  mature  and  become  big.  He  did 
mature,  but  on  the  lines  of  his  beginning,  and  when  at  last 
he  returned  to  London — the  Mecca  of  his  dreams — he  was 
driven  by  laughter  back  to  the  provinces  whence  he  had 
come. 

In  the  hearts  of  provincial  playgoers  there  were  still 
warm  places  for  Eliphalet  Cardomay,  and  the  rich  cadences 
of  his  voice  never  failed  to  arouse  strange  emotions  and 
irrepressible  yearnings  in  the  bosoms  of  impressionable 
young  ladies,  who  wrote  and  confided  their  admiration  with 
surpassing  regularity  and  singular  lack  of  reserve. 

To  his  own  company  he  was  always  courteous  and  con- 
siderate, but  a  trifle  remote.  He  wrapped  himself  about 
in  mystery,  and  as  no  one  knew  exactly  how  to  take  him 
very  few  made  the  attempt. 

"The  public  man  should  always  be  an  enigma." 


4  THE   OLD   CARD 

He  addressed  this  statement  to  a  very  voluble  young 
member  of  his  company,  who  frequented  bars  and  lavished 
cigarettes  upon  total  strangers. 

"Be  mysterious  if  you  wish  to  succeed,"  he  continued, 
developing  the  theme.  "Your  never-ceasing  'Have  a  spot,' 
and  your  ever-open  cigarette-case,  are  the  most  obvious 
things  that  ever  happened." 

Naturally  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  looked  upon  as  some- 
thing of  a  joke.  A  man  with  a  name  like  that  could  hardly 
expect  anything  else.  Yet  to  him  the  name  Eliphalet,  which 
his  sire,  a  once-distinguished  tragedian,  had  borne  before 
him,  was  one  of  his  most  cherished  possessions.  Like  a 
blare  of  trumpets  it  rang  out  from  a  hundred  hoardings. 
It  was  electric — original — arresting.  A  title  to  juggle  with; 
and  yet,  so  strange  is  the  human  mind,  so  averse  to  aught 
but  the  copper  coinage  of  the  language,  that  his  few  inti- 
mate friends  and  the  inner  circles  of  all  provincial  Green 
Rooms  knew,  spoke  and  thought  of  him  by  no  other  appel- 
lation than  "The  Old  Card." 

Let  it  be  clearly  understood  that  no  one  called  him  the 
Old  Card  to  his  face;  for,  although  regarded  as  a  joke, 
Eliphalet  was  clearly  loved  by  his  fellows,  and  if  at  times 
they  indulged  in  the  gentlest  of  leg-pulling  there  was  not 
one  amongst  them  who  would  willingly  have  caused  him 
the  slightest  pain  or  distress. 

But  to  return  to  our  hero,  striding  briskly  over  the  cob- 
ble streets  on  the  particular  Sunday  morning  on  which  our 
narrative  opens.  Every  feature  of  the  ugly  midland  town 
was  familiar  to  him  and  every  feature  good.  Taking  a 
turning  to  the  right,  he  pursued  his  way  through  a  narrow 
and  deserted  alley  between  two  factories.  There  was  an 
acute  angle  a  little  further  down,  and  here  on  a  wall  facing 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  5 

him  a  full-length  prototype  of  himself  had  been  posted. 

Eliphalet  stopped  and  saluted  his  printed  image. 

"Old  boy,"  he  said,  "we  are  back — back  home  again. 
I  deserted  you  for  a  while — a  little  while — but  I've  learnt 
my  lesson,  old  friend,  and  we  will  see  the  rest  of  the  show 
out  together." 

There  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  the  words 
and  an  unnatural  mist  before  his  eyes.  It  was  this  same 
mist,  perhaps,  that  delayed  his  noticing  that  the  billsticker 
had  applied  the  last  sheet  of  the  poster  at  least  ten  inches 
too  high,  with  the  result  that  the  feet  were  practically 
attached  to  the  knees.  Mr.  Cardomay  made  a  note  of  the 
fact  in  a  small  book  he  carried  for  the  purpose  and  con- 
tinued his  walk. 

Two  factory  girls  nudged  each  other  as  he  passed  them 
by. 

"See  who  it  was?  Mister  What-you-call  Cardomay." 

"Oh,  I  like  'im.    'E's  good!    When'll  we  go?" 

The  rest  of  their  remarks  drifted  out  of  earshot,  but 
Eliphalet  Cardomay  felt  a  tinge  of  pride  warming  his 
bosom.  He  was  back  again — back  home. 

The  excellent  Mrs.  Booker,  best  of  landladies,  greeted 
him  with  every  indication  of  respectful  devotion. 

"It's  a  treat  to  see  you  again,  sir,  it  is  indeed,"  she  said, 
opening  the  door  of  the  comfortable  little  parlour,  where 
a  jolly  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate  and  reflecting  its  rays 
on  many  framed  and  autographed  photographs  of  the  cele- 
brated artists  the  room  at  one  time  or  another  had  accommo- 
dated. 

"When  I  heard  you'd  gorn  to  London,  I  said  to  Booker, 
•'There!  we've  lorst  'im,'  and  'e  says,  'I  believe  we  'ave/ 
and  I  says,  'That's  what  we  'ave  done;  for,  depend  on  it, 


6  THE   OLD   CARD 

if  London  gets  hold  of  'im,  it'll  claim  'im  as  their  own  and 
never  let  'im  go.'  " 

Eliphalet's  lips  tightened  a  little.  He  drew  off  his  gloves 
and  cast  them  on  the  embossed  green  plush  sofa,  and 
quoted: 

"The  clinging  magic  runs, 
They  will  return  as  strangers, 
They  will  remain  as  sons." 

"I  returned  as  a  son — and  could  not  remain  as  a 
stranger."  Then,  observing  that  his  remarks  were  entirely 
lost  upon  his  audience,  he  concluded: 

"Did  you  get  me  a  small  leg  of  lamb,  Mrs.  Booker?" 

She  nodded  gravely. 

"A  beautiful  leg,"  she  replied ;  "with  a  black-currant  tart 
to  follow.  I  'aven't  forgotten  your  little  likes,  sir." 

Eliphalet  smiled  beatifically. 

"You  are  an  excellent  good  woman,"  he  said.  Then, 
stretching  himself  luxuriously,  "Yes,  there  is  no  doubt 
at  all — it  is  very  good  to  be  back  again." 

He  cast  a  loving  and  possessive  eye  over  the  homely  sur- 
roundings, shook  out  his  table  napkin,  and  drew  up  a  chair 
to  the  table,  as  a  king  might  sit  at  a  banquet. 

Probably  the  reader  is  wondering  what  this  story  is  all 
about,  and  certainly  it  might  have  been  a  distinct  advantage 
to  have  begun  at  the  beginning  rather  than  the  end.  Hav- 
ing committed  ourselves  so  far,  however,  there  is  no  option 
but  to  retrace  our  steps  to  a  period  some  three  months 
prior  to  the  foregoing  incident. 

It  was  at  the  conclusion  of  a  long  tour  that  Eliphalet 
Cardomay  received  a  startling  proposal  from  London  that 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  7 

he  should  appear  in  the  title-part  in  Oscar  Raven's  drama- 
tisation of  the  Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

For  weeks  past  the  production  had  been  boomed  in  all 
the  dramatic  columns,  and  the  advertised  cast  practically 
made  a  corner  in  the  biggest  stage  stars  of  the  day. 

Sir  Owen  Frazer,  Actor-Manager  and  Knight  (with  dan- 
ger of  becoming  a  baronet),  was  to  have  appeared  as  Cel- 
lini, and  had  favoured  several  reporters  with  extensive  inter- 
views in  which  he  sought  to  convey  to  the  public  mind 
the  depths  of  his  research  into  Cellini's  character.  He  had 
even  gone  to  the  length  of  growing  a  real  beard  for  the 
part,  rather  than  relying  on  the  good  offices  of  Mr.  Clark- 
son.  Therefore,  when  at  the  eleventh  hour  his  voice  entirely 
forsook  him,  and  Harley  Street  unanimously  declared  that 
it  would  forsake  him  altogether  unless  he  gave  it  a  rest 
for  a  month,  consternation  in  dramatic  circles  ran  very 
high  indeed. 

Eight  days  existed  before  the  much-advertised  first  night, 
and  the  finding  of  a  fitting  successor  was  at  once  the  most 
baffling  and  the  most  urgent  affair. 

After  an  all-night  sitting,  in  which  the  name  of  every 
prominent  male  member  of  the  profession  was  suggested, 
and  in  which  Mr.  Oscar  Raven  and  his  part  collabora- 
tor, Julian  Franks,  nearly  came  to  blows  with  every  mem- 
ber of  the  Syndicate,  each  other  included,  the  producer,  a 
young  man  whose  youth  was  only  exceeded  by  his  bril- 
liance, rose  and  standing,  flamingo-like,  on  one  leg,  ad- 
dressed the  meeting. 

"For  God's  sake,  get  to  bed,"  he  said.  "You  are  talk- 
ing bilge,  the  whole  lot  of  you.  I'll  find  someone — in  fact, 
I  have  already.  You  will  say  I  am  mad,"  he  continued, 
in  response  to  a  chorus  of  inquiries  which  greeted  his  state- 


8  THE    OLD    CARD 

ment,  "but  even  at  so  great  a  risk  I  will  tell  you  his  name. 
It  is  Eliphalet  Cardomay." 

Raymond  Wakefield  was  quite  right  when  saying  they 
would  accuse  him  of  madness.  Sir  Owen  Frazer  wrote 
on  a  piece  of  paper  the  opinion  that  he  was  probably  dan- 
gerous as  well.  But  Wakefield  only  laughed. 

"Commend  me  to  authors  for  stupidity  and  to  syndicates 
for  lack  of  intelligence,"  he  observed.  "It  is  evident  none 
of  you  have  the  smallest  acquaintance  with  the  character 
of  Cellini  or  the  art  of  Eliphalet." 

"But  the  man  can't  act." 

"My  dear  Raven!"  expostulated  Wakefield.  "The  man 
never  ceases  to  act." 

"But  not  the  kind  we  want,"  from  Franks. 

"It  will  be  my  duty  to  stop  him  acting." 

"He  has  no  brains,"  contributed  Sir  Owen,  more  by  ges- 
ture than  sound. 

"I,  on  the  other  hand,  have  plenty,"  the  producer  mod- 
estly remarked.  "Just  consider  the  character  of  Cellini,  and 
what  do  we  find?  Conceit,  bombast.  Probably  he  had  a 
beautiful  voice,  certainly  a  chivalrous  manner,  unquestion- 
ably an  incapacity  to  realise  his  own  ineffability.  Turn  to 
Eliphalet  and  you  find  the  exact  prototype.  Compris?" 

"By  George,  yes!"  said  Julian  Franks. 

But  Oscar  Raven  stretched  out  a  silencing  hand. 

"Does  this  man  Cardomay  strike  you  as  the  kind  of 
personality  that  could  ever  have  achieved  the  masterpieces 
which  came  from  the  hand  of  Cellini?" 

"Well,  of  course,  that  is  pure  rot,"  returned  Wakefield. 
"That  was  where  Frazer  was  all  over  the  place  in  the  part. 
Trying  to  convey  an  undercurrent  of  massive  brain-power. 
Believe  me,  the  work  of  great  artists  is  entirely  spontane- 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  9 

ous — they  carry  no  stamp  of  genius.  Look  at  Raven,  for 
instance!  He  has  written  quite  a  remarkably  good  play. 
Does  his  exterior  suggest  it?  No.  Anyone'd  mistake  him 
for  a  haberdasher's  assistant.  But  I'm  off  to  bed.  Fix  it 
up  amongst  yourselves." 

And  that  was  how  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  dragged  from 
the  provinces  and  hurled  into  the  forefront  of  the  Lon- 
don stage,  with  a  great  part  and  eight  days  in  which  to 
study  it. 

As  the  train  bore  him  towards  the  Metropolis,  he  re- 
peated over  and  over  to  himself: 

"It  has  come  at  last.    They  want  me." 

His  mind  flew  back  to  the  old  press-cutting  of  twenty- 
five  years  ago.  "One  day  this  young  man  will  mature  and 
become  big." 

"We'll  show  'em,  old  boy!"  he  said.  Yet  behind  it  all 
was  a  strange  fear — a  queer,  nervous  doubt — the  same 
doubt  which  had  ever  stood  between  him  and  his  cherished 
dreams  of  appearing  in  the  West  End  with  a  production 
of  his  own.  He  had  never  taken  the  plunge — he  had  never 
swum  across  the  Thames  from  the  Surrey  side,  and  it  is 
probable  he  never  would  have  done.  But  now  the  great 
ones  had  stretched  out  their  hands  and  said,  "Come  over." 

London  is  a  chilling  place  to  the  stranger,  and  Eliphalet 
felt  the  chill  almost  before  his  foot  touched  the  platform. 
There  was  no  genial  cap-touching  from  the  porters — no 
polite  salutation  from  the  official  at  the  ticket-barrier.  He 
took  a  cab.  There  was  no  particular  point  in  walking — 
he  could  scarcely  expect  to  be  recognised. 

Fur-coated  and  Trilby-hatted,  Eliphalet  Cardomay  en- 
tered the  stage-door  of  the  Duke  of  Connaught's  and 
mixed  with  the  company.  It  was  curious  what  little  notice 


10  THE   OLD    CARD 

was  taken  of  him.  He  might  have  been  nobody.  Pres- 
ently a  business-manager  came  and  asked  if  he  were  Mr. 
Cardomay,  and,  learning  this  was  the  case,  carried  him 
off  to  an  office  near  the  roof  to  sign  contracts  and  discuss 
details. 

"I  shall  require  my  own  poster  to  be  used,"  said  Elipha- 
let. 

The  business  manager  shook  his  head.  "Sorry,"  was  all 
he  said.  Then  added,  "Reiter  is  doing  the  posters,  you  see." 
It  was  said  so  conclusively  that  argument  was  out  of  the 
question. 

Eliphalet  fell  back  on  his  second  line  of  defences. 

"I  take  it  that  my  name  will  come  first  on  the  bills." 

"No.  Characters  in  order  of  their  appearance  is  the 
way  we  are  working  it.  Shall  we  get  back  to  the  stage?" 

He  was  led  down  through  countless  corridors  until  they 
arrived  at  their  destination.  Here  Oscar  Raven  came  for- 
ward and  introduced  him  to  several  of  his  fellow-players. 

"Let's  get  at  it,"  came  a  voice  from  the  stalls.  "How 
de  do,  Mr.  Cardomay.  You've  read  the  part,  I  suppose?" 

"I  have  not  only  read  the  part,"  he  replied,  "I  have 
studied  the  first  act." 

"Sorry  to  hear  that,"  Wakefield  cheerfully  replied. 
"You  may  have  got  hold  of  the  wrong  end  of  the  stick. 
Here,  wait  a  bit.  I'll  come  up." 

Eliphalet  turned  in  surprise  to  the  author. 

"Who  is  that  very  young  man?"  he  demanded. 

"Raymond  Wakefield — our  producer,"  replied  Raven, 
as  one  who  spoke  of  the  gods. 

"Indeed?"  with  raised  eyebrows. 

Just  then  Wakefield  appeared  through  the  iron  door 
and  skated  on  to  the  stage. 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  11 

"I  meant  to  read  it  to  you  first,"  he  said,  without  any 
preamble.  "But  never  mind.  Now,  what's  your  idea  of  the 
part?" 

Mr.  Cardomay  had  never  been  cross-examined  before, 
and  didn't  like  it;  but  he  replied,  politely  enough: 

"It's  a  very  good  part." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  I  mean,  how  are  you  taking  it?  Com- 
edy, tragedy,  farce?" 

"There  can  scarcely  exist  two  opinions,  Mr.  Wakefield, 
Cellini  is  a  great  thinker — a  poet — a  philosopher." 

"Lord,  no!  Light  comedy  is  what  we  want;  light  com- 
edy to  the  verge  of  farce." 

"Mr.  Wakefield,  I  do  not  appreciate  jokes  in  regard  to 
my  work." 

Here  Raven  intervened  with,  "You  are  so  extreme,  my 
dear  Raymond.  After  all,  Cellini  was  a  great  artist,  and 
in  my  conception " 

"Look  here,  Raven,"  said  Wakefield,  running  his  fin- 
gers through  his  pinky-yellow  hair,  "you'll  have  to  stop 
away  from  rehearsals  if  you  can't  shake  those  absurd  ideas 
from  your  brain.  The  Cellini  I  want,  and  mean  to  have, 
is  the  man  who  had  liaisons  with  his  models,  committed 
murders,  and  yet  was  an  artist  malgre  lui.  You  see  what 
I  mean?"  He  fired  the  query  at  Eliphalet.  "You've  read 
the  biography,  of  course?" 

"I  have  little  leisure  for  reading,"  replied  the  actor,  feel- 
ing a  trifle  dazed. 

"You  must  do  so  at  once,  then.  Come  on,  and  I'll  go 
over  some  passages  with  you  now  at  the  Savage.  Rey- 
nolds, take  the  crowd  scenes — we'll  be  back  by  two."  And 
he  gripped  Eliphalet  to  whisk  him  away. 


12  THE   OLD   CARD 

But  Eliphalet  Cardomay  would  not  allow  himself  to  be 
hustled. 

"Mr.  Wakefield,"  he  said,  "I  have  eight  days  in  which 
to  study  a  long  and  important  role.  I  do  not  choose  to 
squander  any  of  these  precious  hours  in  profitless  discus- 
sion. Let  us  proceed  to  rehearse  at  once." 

This  was  mutiny — rank  mutiny.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
the  great  Sir  Owen  Frazer,  at  present  seated  at  the  back  of 
the  stalls,  would  have  presumed  to  say  as  much. 

Raymond  Wakefield's  cherubic  face  went  into  a  series  of 
straight  lines.  He  had  never  before  been  openly  defied 
and  his  sense  of  humour  deserted  him.  It  deserted  him 
for  eight  consecutive  days,  during  which  time  he  gave  Eli- 
phalet Cardomay  every  kind  of  hell.  Unmindful  of  the 
very  characteristics  which  had  prompted  him  to  make  the 
engagement,  he  caught  up  every  stereotyped  inflexion,  each 
elaborate  gesture,  and  subjected  it  to  the  most  rigorous 
criticism,  analysis  and  correction.  In  justice  it  should  be 
admitted  that,  according  to  modern  standards,  there  was 
a  very  sound  reason  for  all  his  suggestions.  Raymond 
Wakefield  was  never  at  a  loss  for  reasons.  He  kept  up  a 
running  fire  of  interrogation  as  to  what  Eliphalet  was  driv- 
ing at,  and  Eliphalet  never  could  answer. 

"Why  chant  that  passage  as  though  it  were  a  hymn, 
when  the  whole  intention  of  the  line  is — Ouch!  You  speak 
the  stuff  like  the  ancients  spoke  blank  verse.  There!  When 
you  are  telling  Pietro  to  bring  you  'raw  gold' — you  say 
'raw  gold'  as  though  it  were  something  sacred  and  divine. 
My  dear  fellow,  it's  the  stuff  you're  working  in  every  day  of 
the  week.  Try  and  imagine  yourself  a  plumber  saying  to 
his  mate,  'Get  us  a  lump  of  putty,  Jack.'  " 

At  first  Eliphalet  resented  this  treatment  hotly,  but  he 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  13 

was  no  match  for  this  electric  young  man.  On  the  third 
day  of  rehearsals  he  had  been  so  ill-advised  as  to  retort. 

"You  forget  that  I  was  acting  many  years  before  you 
were  thought  of."  He  regretted  the  words  almost  before 
he  had  spoken  them. 

That  night  he  sat  down  on  his  bed  and  reviewed  the 
whole  affair.  His  belief  in  himself  was  shattered.  He 
realised  that  all  the  painful  years  of  acquired  technique 
were  valueless.  His  entire  stock-in-trade  had  been  ex- 
ploded and  held  up  to  ridicule  by  a  young  man  who  could 
scarcely  need  to  shave  more  than  twice  a  week.  And  the 
worst  of  it  was  that  his  resentment  for  that  young  man  had 
died,  and  in  his  heart  he  confessed  that  all  and  every- 
thing he  had  been  told  was  good  and  true  and  right,  and 
that  his  own  methods  were  bad  and  false  and  wrong. 

Next  morning  he  did  a  very  gracious  act.  He  apologised 
to  Raymond  Wakefield  and  promised  to  do  his  best  hi  the 
future.  Unhappily,  the  apology  came  at  an  inopportune 
moment.  Both  authors  had  been  reviling  Wakefield  for  let- 
ting them  down,  and  had  declared  that  the  play  would  be 
ruined  as  a  result  of  his  casting.  They  insisted  that  Car- 
domay  must  be  got  rid  of  and  the  production  postponed. 
Wakefield  never  admitted  himself  at  fault,  and  a  stormy 
scene  resulted.  Eventually  Sir  Owen  Frazer  was  appealed 
to,  and,  to  the  general  astonishment,  he  wrote  on  a  sheet 
of  paper,  his  voice  being  inoperative,  that  if  either  or  both 
of  the  suggestions  were  carried  out  he  would  institute  pro- 
ceedings against  everyone  concerned.  Being  lessee  of  the 
theatre,  nothing  more  could  be  said  at  the  time,  but  sub- 
sequently Messrs.  Raven  and  Franks  foregathered  and 
spoke  hard  words  anent  Sir  Owen — who,  they  declared, 


14  THE   OLD   CARD 

being  unable  to  play  the  part  himself,  desired  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  see  it  mutilated. 

One  can  understand,  therefore,  why  Eliphalet's  apology 
was  not  so  well  received  as  it  deserved.  In  fact,  all  that 
Raymond  Wakefield  said  was: 

"Glad  to  hear  it,  for  we've  any  amount  of  lost  ground  to 
make  up." 

The  hours  and  days  that  followed  were  pitiful  to  the 
point  of  tragedy.  The  Old  Card  worked  like  a  dray  horse 
at  the  new  art  of  being  natural,  which,  despite  his  utmost 
effort,  further  and  further  eluded  him.  At  the  last  dress- 
rehearsal  there  was  not  a  line  nor  a  movement,  from  start 
to  finish,  which  fitted  him  anywhere. 

Both  authors  left  the  theatre  in  a  state  of  speechless  fury 
at  the  end  of  the  second  act,  and  when  the  curtain  fell  on 
the  final  scene  of  the  play,  Raymond  Wakefield  just  looked 
at  him,  shook  his  head,  and  followed  their  example. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay,  a  perfect  picture  in  his  Florentine 
robes,  stood  like  a  statue  in  the  middle  of  the  deserted 
stage.  An  overmastering  desire  possessed  him  to  hide  his 
head  and  cry  like  a  child  in  some  dark  recess.  He  moved 
unsteadily  toward  the  prompt  corner.  The  iron  door  beside 
it  was  open,  and  there,  in  the  brightly-lit  corridor  leading 
to  the  Royal  Box,  stood  Sir  Owen  Frazer,  and  he  was 
laughing — laughing,  it  seemed,  as  a  man  had  never  laughed 
before. 

Until  that  moment  his  feelings  had  been  entirely  of  self- 
reproach.  He  had  acquired  the  bitter  knowledge  that  a 
great  chance  had  been  given  him — the  chance  for  which  he 
had  waited  all  his  life — and  he — he  couldn't  deal  with  it. 
To-morrow  evening  the  public  would  witness  an  exhibition 
so  execrable,  so  vile,  that  the  veriest  tyro  might  be 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  15 

ashamed  of  giving  it.  But  the  sight  of  Sir  Owen  Frazer's 
mirth  brought  about  an  instant  metamorphosis.  The  self- 
reproach  vanished,  to  be  supplanted  by  a  dull  and  smoul- 
dering rage. 

With  compressed  lips  he  made  as  if  to  approach  the 
Knight;  then,  turning  about,  he  swept  superbly  from  the 
stage. 

Back  at  his  hotel  he  came  to  a  great  decision.  Failure 
on  the  morrow  was  certain.  Well,  fail  he  might,  but  not 
on  the  lines  of  Raymond  Waken1  eld's  laying.  London 
should  see  Eliphalet  Cardomay  play  Cellini  on  his  own 
methods — play  it,  in  fact,  just  as  he  had  played  "The  Sil- 
ver King,"  and  a  hundred  other  creations. 

A  rehearsal  was  called  for  his  especial  benefit  next  day, 
but  he  telephoned  to  say  that  he  had  no  intention  of  being 
present. 

Raymond  Wakefield  got  into  a  cab  and  set  forth  to  see 
what  it  was  all  about.  He  found  his  quarry,  arrayed  in  a 
gorgeous  kimono,  discussing  a  late  breakfast. 

"Look,  here,  Mr.  Cardomay,"  he  began,  "do  you  con- 
sider this  is  fair?" 

Eliphalet  motioned  him  to  a  chair  and  placed  cigarettes 
within  easy  reach. 

"My  dear  young  Mr.  Raymond  Wakefield,"  he  said,  choos- 
ing his  words  with  slow  deliberation,  "I  have  no  intention 
to  rehearse  again,  because  it  would  be  useless.  You,  with 
unexampled  brilliance — and,  believe  me,  no  one  is  more  sen- 
sible of  your  admirable  gifts  than  I  am — have  devoted  an 
entire  week  in  a  fruitless  endeavour  to  teach  your  grand- 
mother to  suck  eggs.  Doubtless  grandmothers  should  know 
how  to  perform  this  delicate  ritual,  doubtless  it  is  expedi- 
ent and  is  expected  of  them;  but  many  are  too  old  to  learn, 


16  THE   OLD   CARD 

and,  right  or  wrong,  prefer  to  decapitate  the  ova  with  a 
table  knife  and  assimilate  its  albuminous  contents  with  the 
aid  of  a  teaspoon.  I  have  done  my  best,  and  have  failed 
— confessedly,  I  have  proved  an  inept  pupil,  and,  to 
complete  the  metaphor,  have  dribbled  the  yolk  and  the 
white  all  over  my  waistcoat  like  a  child  that  knows  no 
better." 

"My  dear  chap,"  exclaimed  Raymond  Wakefield,  striking 
one  hand  against  the  other,  "if  only  you  would  play  Cel- 
lini as  you  are  talking  now,  I'd  turn  into  a  door-mat  for 
you  to  wipe  your  feet  on.  Now,  let's  run  over  it  just  once 
more." 

But  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  adamant. 

The  Duke  of  Connaught's  Theatre  was  packed  to  over- 
flowing for  the  opening  performance  of  "Benvenuto  Cel- 
lini." Incidentally,  every  member  of  the  dramatic  profes- 
sion, not  otherwise  engaged,  made  it  a  duty  to  be  present, 
some  even  going  to  the  extremity  of  paying  for  their  seats. 

The  news  that  something  unusual  in  the  way  of  acting 
was  likely  to  occur  had  spread  with  the  rapidity  of  a  fire. 
Be  it  said  that  most  of  his  fellow-players  were  heartily 
sympathetic  with  Eliphalet  for  the  failure  they  were  confi- 
dent he  would  make,  but  their  sympathy  did  not  take  the 
form  of  staying  away. 

Before  the  curtain  rose,  each  member  of  the  company 
came  forward  to  wish  him  luck,  and  he,  with  old-world 
courtesy,  thanked  them  all  and  waited,  apparently  unmoved, 
for  his  cue. 

The  first  scene  in  which  he  was  to  appear  was  a  very 
Rabelaisian  interlude  wherein  he  made  love,  of  a  base 
kind,  to  his  model.  At  rehearsals  he  had  been  worse  in 
this  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  play.  His  efforts  to 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  17 

acquire  a  light  touch  had  been  little  short  of  bricklayer's 
pastry,  and  the  poor  girl  with  whom  the  scene  took  place 
was  in  an  agony  of  dread  at  the  coming  ordeal.  What  was 
her  amazement,  then,  when  Eliphalet  Cardomay  acted  the 
whole  racy  interlude  as  though  he  were  reading  a  lesson 
from  the  Bible. 

At  first  the  audience  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it, 
the  reading  was  so  utterly  at  variance  with  the  lines.  Then, 
like  a  wave,  it  struck  them  that  here  was  originality  at  its 
highest.  Here  in  these  full-throated  accents,  these  absurd 
parsonic  gestures,  was  a  brilliant  satirical  reading — a  frag- 
ment of  exquisite  characterisation. 

There  was  an  ovation  when  Eliphalet  left  the  stage. 

In  the  author's  box  Sir  Owen  Frazer  was  heard  to  say, 
with  extraordinary  force,  considering  he  had  lost  his  voice, 
"I'm  damned !  Damn  it  1 " 

Oscar  Raven  plucked  Wakefield  by  the  sleeve.  "What 
on  earth  do  you  make  of  it?"  he  said. 

"It  will  make  the  play,"  came  the  reply. 

"But  I  can't  understand.  Does  he  know  what  he's 
doing?" 

"  'Course  not.  Our  friend  Eliphalet  is  shirking.  He 
couldn't  do  what  we  wanted,  so  he's  just  turning  on  the 
old  stuff,  the  old  provincial  tap." 

"Then  please  Heaven,"  came  from  Franks,  "he  keeps 
up  the  flow  till  the  end." 

And  he  did.  All  the  bad  provincial  fake  was  reeled  off 
— mere  vocalisation  and  attitudinising,  utterly  misplaced, 
fitting  the  part  nowhere,  and  for  that  very  reason  accepted 
by  the  high-browed  Press  and  the  novelty-seeking  public  as 
one  of  the  finest  dramatic  conceptions  of  the  day. 

The  Press  raved  about  it.    They  went  into  ecstasies  over 


i8  THE    OLD   CARD 

the  Art  of  Eliphalet  and  his  "epic  cynicism."  "Why  had  this 
marvellous  depictor  been  denied  to  London?"  they  cried. 
"Doubtless,"  said  one,  "much  praise  is  due  to  the  intellect 
of  Mr.  Wakefield,  the  brilliant  producer,  but  for  the  actor 
himself  no  adulation  could  be  too  strong." 

And  the  "brilliant  young  producer"  kicked  himself  heart- 
ily in  that  the  praise  should  have  been  due  to  him  for  cast- 
ing Eliphalet  as  Cellini,  but  that  he  had  forfeited  all  claim 
thereunto  by  losing  sight  of  his  original  intention  out  of 
pique. 

The  wonderful  notices  were  brought  to  Eliphalet  on  the 
following  morning  as  he  lay  in  bed,  and  very  gravely  he 
read  them  through — and  understood.  There  was  no  tri- 
umph in  his  eyes — the  meaning  of  those  cuttings  was  too 
clear.  To  Eliphalet  they  spelt  failure,  not  fame.  The 
words  "epic  cynicism"  rang  through  his  brain.  Epic  cyni- 
cism?— Yes,  it  was  just  that.  And  instead  of  rising,  as  for 
years  he  had  dreamed  he  would  do,  and  saying  to  his  image 
in  the  glass,  "Eliphalet,  old  boy,  we've  knocked  'em — 
knocked  'em  hard,"  he  pulled  the  coverlet  over  his  head 
and  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow. 

"Benvenuto  Cellini"  ran  ten  weeks,  during  which  time 
the  secret  of  Eliphalet's  success  was  well  preserved. 

Oddly  enough,  Sir  Owen  Frazer,  whose  voice  by  this 
time  was  restored  to  him,  was  singularly  free  from  enthu- 
siasm with  regard  to  the  hit  his  confrere  had  made.  Peo- 
ple even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that,  had  he  been  a  lesser 
man,  they  would  have  suspected  him  of  jealousy.  Thus 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  astonishment  when  it  became 
known  that  he  had  offered  Eliphalet  Cardomay  the  second 
lead  in  his  new  production. 

Eliphalet  received  the  part  in  company  with  an  invita- 


THE   BIG   CHANCE  19 

tion  to  supper.  He  went  over  it  very  carefully  and  very 
suspiciously.  Then  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  went  forth 
to  seek  Raymond  Wakefield. 

"Read  this,"  he  begged,  "and  open  up  your  wonderful 
brain  as  to  its  potentialities." 

Raymond  did  so,  and  explained  with  fluency  and  clarity 
the  thousand  subtle  intricacies  with  which  the  part  abounded. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  nodded  gravely. 

"Sir  Owen  Frazer  is  a  very  clever  man,"  he  remarked. 

On  his  way  back  he  returned  the  part,  with  a  polite 
refusal  to  sup.  In  a  postscript  he  added: 

"I  am  returning  to  the  provinces  for  good.  One  should 
never  destroy  an  illusion.  You  have  had  your  laugh.  It 
was  generous  of  you  to  wish  to  share  it  with  the  masses." 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  stepped  from  his  first-class  com- 
partment to  the  platform.  Potter,  his  dresser,  having  de- 
scended from  the  train  while  it  was  still  in  motion,  respect- 
fully held  open  the  carriage  door  lest  his  august  master 
should  soil  his  beautiful  wash-leather  gloves. 

Dear  me!  this  sounds  strangely  familiar.  Why,  of  course  1 
That's  the  worst  of  starting  a  story  at  the  wrong  end. 


CHAPTER  II 

PISTOLS    FOR    TWO 

LET  us  avoid  repetition,  and  return  to  Eliphalet  Cardo- 
may  where  we  left  him  at  the  dining-table,  to  march 
backwards  to  a  past  episode. 

Lack  of  concentration  and  cohesion  are  among  the  chief 
snares  lying  in  wait  for  him  who  chronicles  character 
rather  than  plot.  One  might,  of  course,  hazard,  by  way  of 
excuse,  that  the  recently  recounted  reminiscence  was  of 
greater  interest  than  a  detailed  account  of  a  roast  leg  of 
lamb  followed  by  black-currant  tart  would  prove.  But 
justifications  are  always  dull.  To  Eliphalet  Cardomay  the 
London  episode  was  a  grief  unspeakable,  whereas  the  homely 
repast,  consumed  in  such  familiar  and  well-loved  surround- 
ings, was  the  very  reverse. 

He  finished  that  black-currant  tart  unto  the  final  morsel, 
till  naught  but  the  permanganate-coloured  stains  upon  the 
plate  remained  in  token  of  its  recent  being.  There  was 
something  almost  boyish  in  the  liberality  of  his  appetite.  In 
using  the  term  boyish  the  period  of  his  own  youth  is  not 
implied,  for  Eliphalet  displayed  no  youthful  traits  until  his 
hair  was  silvered,  his  brow  furrowed,  and  his  eyes  deep- 
set. 

There  are  certain  men  whose  mental  condition  bears 
little  or  no  relation  to  their  years,  and  he  was  one  of  them. 
They  are  born  with  grown-up  minds,  sage  and  mature  con- 

20 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  21 

victions,  unsuited  to  youth  and  only  really  serviceable  when 
they  have  reached  that  time  of  life  with  which  such  gravity 
accords. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay,  even  when  a  boy,  was  oppressed 
with  a  middle-aged  manner  and  a  professional  mien.  It 
might  truthfully  be  said  that  his  brain  and  body  did  not 
synchronise  until  he  had  passed  the  forty-year  high-water 
mark.  His  body,  or,  to  put  it  more  gracefully,  his  exter- 
nals, were  prepossessing.  His  broad  forehead,  swept-back 
hair,  bold  eyebrows  and  dilated  nostrils,  gave  suggestion 
of  virility  and  power.  To  a  maiden  they  were  productive 
of  second  glances,  an  added  colour  and  a  quickening  of 
heart-beats  against  the  ramparts  of  her  corsets.  In  this 
well-knit  yet  aesthetic  youth  she  might  be  pardoned  for  pre- 
suming there  lurked  wells  of  high  romance,  tempered  with 
humour  and  a  knavish  disposition.  It  was  said  of  him 
in  the  company,  where  he  played  juvenile  leads  at  two  pounds 
two  shillings  a  week,  that  he  was  "deep."  Furthermore, 
since  it  was  never  his  custom  to  boast  about  deeds  of  love, 
the  young  men  with  whom  his  lot  was  cast  credited  him 
with  the  proclivities  of  a  Lothario  and  laid  to  his  account 
many  charming  indiscretions  in  the  glades  of  Eros.  The 
older  members  of  the  company  were  wiser,  or  deemed  them- 
selves to  be,  and  decided,  not  without  a  certain  rough 
justice,  that  he  was  a  bit  of  a  prig.  For  this  reason,  Har- 
rington May,  who  specialised  in  villains  of  the  heavier 
kind,  gave  him  the  title  of  "Mother's  Boy"  and  named 
him  as  such  to  his  face. 

Eliphalet  was  very  grave  (he  had  accomplished  the  forty- 
five  manner  twenty  years  before  he  was  entitled  to  it),  and 
replied: 

"In  so  far  as  I  was  born  of  woman  your  accusation  is 


22  THE    OLD    CARD 

correct.  My  mother  died,  however,  when  I  was  a  year  old. 
I  presume,  from  your  smile,  you  believe  you  have  said 
something  offensive,  but  since  it  is  nothing  but  the  truth 
I  cannot  allow  myself  to  take  umbrage,  even  though  the 
truth  is  usually  a  stranger  to  your  lips." 

For  one  so  young  the  speech  was  painfully  pedantic,  but 
it  succeeded  in  putting  Mr.  Harrington  May  temporarily 
out  of  action,  and  established  for  Eliphalet  a  reputation 
for  caustic  repartee.  He  was  frequently  asked  to  repeat 
his  words,  but  this  he  politely  declined  to  do,  thus  giving 
further  proof  of  age  before  accession  to  age. 

Miss  Blanche  Cannon,  a  depictor  of  adventuresses  on 
the  stage  and  a  great  Bohemian  off,  had  been  present  at 
the  contretemps,  and  was  greatly  delighted  by  the  young 
man's  urbanity  and  calm.  It  is  no  infrequent  occurrence 
for  opposites  to  be  attracted  by  each  other,  and  she,  with 
her  scatter-brained,  love-a-lark  disposition,  scented  in  Eli- 
phalet a  suitor  of  possible  quality. 

He,  poor  fellow,  was  quite  unaware  of  this,  for  his 
thoughts  were  centred  in  Art  and  a  desire  to  make  a  mark 
in  dramatic  history.  Hitherto  he  had  had  no  dealings  with 
love,  and  many  a  maid  had  languished  in  vain  on  that 
account. 

But  Blanche  was  not  of  the  languishing  brand.  Having 
decided  to  ensnare  his  affections,  she  set  about  making 
inquiries,  and  was  greatly  intrigued  to  learn,  from  several 
misinformed,  but  talkative,  young  actors,  that  he  was 
"no  end  of  a  dog  on  the  Q.T."  One  of  them,  with  an  imagi- 
nation that  would  have  thriven  in  Fleet  Street,  went  to  the 
length  of  describing  a  liaison  with  a  certain  titled  lady, 
who  had  become  enamoured  of  Eliphalet  from  the  stalls 
and  had  lured  him  away  to  a  castle,  beside  which  Haddon 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  23 

Hall  paled  into  insignificance.  Charmed  by  these  accounts, 
Blanche  Cannon's  desire  developed  exceedingly,  and  forth- 
with she  began  a  tentative  archery  upon  the  heart  of  Eliph- 
alet.  It  is  always  your  student  who  proves  the  easiest 
prey  to  the  wiles  of  love,  and  one  day,  when  she  had  suc- 
cessfully manoeuvred  a  tete-a-tete  tea-party  in  her  own 
rooms,  Eliphalet  succumbed,  and  Blanche,  picking  up  her 
cue  with  professional  skill,  dropped  into  his  arms  under  a 
smother  of  kisses. 

Eliphalet  was  entirely  proficient  in  the  art  of  love-mak- 
ing. It  was  part  of  his  equipment  as  an  actor.  He  knew 
the  moment  to  fold  to  his  bosom  the  form  of  an  adored 
one,  and  how  to  brush  the  hair  back  from  her  forehead 
with  just  sufficient  pressure  to  elevate  the  chin  to  the  ideal 
angle  for  imprinting  a  kiss.  He  knew  how  to  drop  his 
voice  to  a  quality  of  whispering  and  passionate  vibration. 
All  of  these  services  he  most  faithfully  rendered,  with  one 
or  two  minor  improvements  suggested  by  a  productive  mind. 
Repetition,  however,  if  pursued  beyond  a  given  margin, 
is  apt  to  weary  the  soul,  and  after  a  while  Blanche  began 
to  yearn  for  variety,  and  to  doubt  if  he  were  indeed  the 
ideal  lover.  Certain  misgivings  also  arose  in  his  own  mind. 
At  first  he  was  enveloped  in  the  wonder  of  love  new-born, 
but  as  time  went  on  he  was  able  to  detect  certain  faults 
in  the  poetic  composition  of  his  destined  bride.  For  in- 
stance, she  did  not  respond  very  rapidly  to  the  Shakespearian 
atmosphere  he  diligently  sought  to  produce  by  passionately- 
delivered  quotations  from  Romeo  and  Juliet.  She  showed 
a  marked  lack  of  interest  in  the  story  of  Abelard  and 
Heloise,  and  a  greater  enthusiasm  at  the  prospect  of  a 
donkey-ride  on  the  New  Brighton  sands  than  a  lovers' 
wander  in  leafy  solitudes.  She  became  sick  of  holding 


24  THE   OLD    CARD 

hands,  and  more  than  once  told  him  stories  the  humour  of 
which  would  have  been  better  suited  to  the  court  of  Bluff 
King  Hal. 

To  a  sensitive  mind  these  passages  of  wit  were  distaste- 
ful, but  nevertheless  Eliphalet  Cardomay  remained  in  love 
with  praiseworthy  constancy.  He  built  palaces,  masoned 
and  mortared  of  their  united  talents,  and  spoke  of  the 
future  that  should  be  theirs — a  future  which  would  be 
spoken  of  in  restrospect  by  posterity.  With  love  and 
guidance  he  convinced  himself  that  Blanche  would  in  time 
come  to  a  fuller  understanding  of  the  vast  responsibility 
they  jointly  held  for  the  furtherance  of  art.  He  pictured 
her  as  blossoming  into  a  great  emotional  actress,  and  to 
that  end  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  over-hilarity  in  public 
places,  and  to  attach  less  importance  to  such  trivial  pleas- 
ures as  ice-creams  consumed  in  small  Italian  cafes.  He 
spoke  of  the  glory  of  mutual  understanding,  reciprocity, 
and  many  other  long-worded  matters,  tedious  to  a  person 
of  light-hearted  habit. 

For  her  part,  Blanche  was  heartily  disappointed  that 
none  of  the  alleged  characteristics  displayed  in  the  affair 
of  the  titled  lady  had  been  revealed  to  her.  His  behaviour 
had  been  of  a  scrupulous  purity,  and  high-standing  little 
short  of  ridiculous.  It  has  been  said  that  Blanche  was 
a  Bohemian,  which  implies  a  taste  for  the  savoury  diet. 
She  enjoyed  risky  friendships — she  liked  to  see  the  eyes 
of  her  lover  catch  fire  and  to  quell  the  fire  by  some  cold 
drench  of  inconsequent  nonsense.  That  was  caviare!  There 
was  a  relish  in  such  intimacy — but  with  Eliphalet,  and 
his  erode  quotations,  there  was  none.  Wherefore,  partly 
to  stimulate  more  vivid  emotions,  and  partly  for  her  own 
entertainment,  she  adopted  other  methods,  and  in  Mr.  Har- 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  25 

rington  May  and  his  natural  villainies  she  found  the  desired 
means. 

May  was  a  heavily-built  man  with  a  hearty  laugh  and 
a  bullying  manner.  He  bullied  his  juniors  and  his  lovers 
alike,  and  by  so  doing  achieved  something  of  a  reputation 
for  manhood.  His  principle  in  life  was  to  take  his  fun 
where  he  found  it,  so,  accordingly,  when  Blanche  yearned 
towards  him,  he  threw  an  arm  around  her  with  a  strong 
man's  zeal. 

"Can't  see  what  you  found  to  amuse  you  in  that  young 
spring  poet,"  he  observed,  after  the  first  elaborately-resisted 
embrace  had  been  achieved. 

"Anyway,"  returned  Blanche,  who  was  a  firm  believer  in 
tantalising  methods,  "he  scored  off  you  all  right." 

Harrington  May  did  not  deny  the  charge,  but  "I'm  scor- 
ing off  him  pretty  heavily  at  the  moment,"  he  said. 

When,  that  night,  Eliphalet  suggested  to  Blanche  they 
should  take  sandwiches  and  aerated  waters  and  have  a  pic- 
nic in  the  pleasaunces  of  Jesmond  Dene  the  following  day, 
she  shook  her  head  and  declined. 

"But  my  dearest,  there  will  be  no  rehearsal,  and  you 
and  I  could " 

"I've  something  else  to  do,  I  tell  you." 

She  was  very  mysterious  and  roguishly  declined  to  tell 
him  what.  Eliphalet,  unlike  most  youths,  was  not  in  the 
least  suspicious,  but  he  thought  it  a  strange  violation  of 
true  love's  laws  to  harbour  secrets.  When  he  observed  as 
much,  she  put  him  off  with  a  coquettish  toss  of  the  head. 

For  the  next  couple  of  days  each  proposed  meeting  met 
with  the  same  answer,  and  at  last  he  began  to  feel  angry 
and  injured. 

Being  of  a  philosophical  mind,  this  sense  of  injury  found 


26  THE   OLD    CARD 

expression  in  more  practical  ways  than  upbraiding  his 
fiancle.  He  reflected  that,  if  after  so  short  a  time  she  was 
able  willingly  to  forego  the  charms  of  his  company,  it  was 
reasonable  to  expect  that  serious  breaches  would  arise 
should  they  engage  upon  more  enduring  relations.  This 
reasoning  led  to  the  natural  conclusion  that  Blanche  Can- 
non was  not  the  right  woman  to  fill  the  post  of  his  wife 
and  helpmeet.  It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  to  tell  her  so 
at  once,  rather  than  increase  the  embarrassment  by  un- 
timely delay. 

These  thoughts  were  occupying  his  mind  when  Blanche 
herself  pushed  open  his  dressing-room  door,  and,  violently 
rubbing  her  cheek,  stepped  inside. 

"You  are  a  nice  lover,  aren't  you?"  she  began. 

"I  have  tried  to  be,"  he  replied  evenly. 

"Well,  you  haven't  succeeded.  My  idea  of  a  lover  is  a 
knight  in  armour  who  protects  his  fair  lady,  not  you.  You 
sit  down  and  shut  your  eyes  to  what's  going  on  in  front 
of  your  nose." 

"I  don't  understand,  my  dear.  You  had  some  secrets, 
and  I  did  not  like  to  intrude  on  them  without  your  per- 
mission." 

"No,  and  I  suppose  you'd  wait  for  my  permission  before 
going  for  a  man  who  tried  to  kiss  me." 

Eliphalet  rose  and  compressed  his  lips. 

"No  one  would  dare  with  the  knowledge  that  we  are 
engaged." 

"Wouldn't  they,  just!  Well,  they  just  have — at  least 
one  has,  the  vile  brute!" 

"A  member  of  this  company  kissed  you  against  your 
will?" 

"Of  course." 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  27 

"Who?" 

"You'd  do  nothing  if  I  told  you." 

"Who?"  repeated  Eliphalet,  very  white  and  calm. 

"Harrington  May." 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  know  what  to  do,  my  dear.  Your 
honour  is  quite  safe  with  me;  and  mine — mine  has  been 
outraged." 

He  threw  open  the  door  and  closed  it  crisply  behind 
him,  leaving  Blanche  looking  a  little  scared.  She  had  not 
counted  on  producing  the  quality  of  dull  anger  his  face  had 
worn,  but  thought  rather  he  would  fly  into  a  boy's  rage — 
caress  her  with  a  savage  intensity  and  curse  the  man  who 
had  sought  to  steal  her  favours.  Then  she  would  have 
told  him  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  joke,  devised  to  buck 
him  up  and  make  him  amusing.  Afterwards,  they  would 
have  gone  out  and  had  a  jolly  good  beano.  But  some- 
how his  looks  did  not  give  encouragement  for  such  a  recital, 
and,  moreover,  she  felt  a  stirring  of  admiration  for 
the  manner  in  which  he  had  strode  to  confront  his  rival. 

Eliphalet  went  straight  to  Harrington  May's  room  and 
entered  uninvited. 

The  leading-man  was  removing  his  make-up,  and  he 
looked  up  over  the  brim  of  a  very  dirty  towel. 

"What  d'you  want?"  he  demanded. 

And  Eliphalet  answered  coldly  enough: 

"You  are  a  blackguard — a  low,  thieving  blackguard.  A 
man  to  whom  honour  is  a  thing  unknown." 

"That's  very  pretty,"  said  May.     "Did  you  write  it?" 

"You  dared  to  kiss  my  future  wife." 

Harrington  May  rubbed  his  face  thoughtfully. 

"Oh,  and  who  would  that  be?" 

"I  refer  to  Miss  Cannon." 


28  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Oh,  ah!  I  see.  And  I'm  supposed  to  have  kissed  her, 
am  I?" 

"Do  you  deny  having  done  so?" 

"Well,  I  must  make  quite  sure  before  answering.  There's 
a  note-book  in  the  pocket  of  that  jacket,  if  you'd  pass  it 
over." 

But  Eliphalet  picked  up  a  pair  of  gloves  and  flung  them 
into  the  leading-man's  face. 

"Hey!     Go  easy!     What's  that  for?" 

"It  is  a  challenge." 

"A  challenge,  eh?  To  what?" 

"To  a  duel." 

Harrington  May  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  aloud, 
but  for  all  that  he  scrutinised  Eliphalet  shrewdly  from  the 
corner  of  his  eye. 

"As  the  challenged  party,  it  is  your  right  to  choose  the 
weapons." 

"Ah,  yes,  so  it  is.  I  haven't  fought  a  duel  for  a  week 
or  two,  so  I'd  forgotten.  What  do  you  say  to  crossbows? 
— or,  if  they  don't  suit,  I'm  a  pretty  good  hand  with  the 
lasso." 

"The  choice  lies  between  pistols  and  swords." 

May  flashed  another  quick  glance.  Certainly  the  young 
man  appeared  to  be  in  earnest — but  the  whole  thing  was 
absurd.  He  was  on  the  point  of  selecting  swords,  as  the 
first  word  to  come  to  hand,  but  decided  hurriedly  against 
doing  so.  It  was  conceivable  Eliphalet,  in  the  heat  of  his 
anger,  might  snatch  up  a  sword  and  make  a  dig  at  him.  In 
the  course  of  one  or  two  previous  productions  they  had 
fought  a  few  stage-fights,  and  Eliphalet  Cardomay  had 
rather  a  pretty  knack  with  a  blade.  Pistols  and  the 
thought  of  speeding  lead  would  very  soon  destroy  the  fool- 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  29 

ish  ideas  that  were  possessing  him,  thought  May;  so  with 
a  world  of  dignity  he  said: 

"I  choose  the  trusty  old  bundook." 

"We  will  meet  at  midnight  by  the  ruined  mill  in  Jes- 
mond  Dene,"  said  Eliphalet,  and  walked  sedately  from 
the  room. 

Harrington  May  sat  motionless  awhile,  regarding  his 
own  image  in  the  glass.  He  felt  oddly  cold,  and  his  jaw 
showed  a  disposition  to  tremble. 

"Whew!"  he  said,  squaring  his  shoulders.  "This  is 
silly!  That  young  upstart  is  trying  to  bounce  me.  Well, 
we  must  come  back  on  him  heavily,  that's  all." 

He  rose  and  finished  dressing. 

At  the  stage-door  a  few  members  of  the  company  had 
gathered,  and  an  inspiration  seized  him  to  narrate  what  had 
occurred.  So,  with  plenty  of  noise  and  a  liberal  allowance 
of  margin  for  his  own  repartee,  he  recounted  the  side- 
splitting exchanges  that  had  led  up  to  the  challenge. 

"What  do  you  think,  boys?"  he  shouted.  "It's  pistols 
for  two,  at  midnight." 

To  a  chorus  of  "No,"  "Chuck  it,"  and  "You're  hav- 
ing us  on,  old  man,"  he  responded: 

"Solemn  fact,  I  give  you  my  word.  We  meet  in  Jes- 
mond  Dene  at  the  witching  hour  of  twelve.  Coffee  for  one 
at  five  past." 

Never  before  had  the  company  enjoyed  so  rich  a  jest,  and 
they  fell  about  in  ecstasies  of  rib-punching  laughter. 

"  'Course  I  saw  through  it,"  said  May,  "though  he  played 
his  bluff  well.  I  wish  some  of  you  had  been  there.  I  was 
as  solemn  as  a  judge.  Lord!  it  was  funny." 

"D'you  think  he  was  bluffing,  then?"  asked  a  very  young 


30  THE   OLD   CARD 

man,  whose  name  was  Manning,  and  who  secretly  harboured 
admiration  for  Eliphalet  Cardomay. 

"I  don't  think  about  it,  darling,"  responded  May,  and 
was  greeted  with  a  fresh  burst  of  merriment,  in  which  all 
but  the  aforesaid  youngster  joined. 

"It  'ud  be  funnier  still,"  he  ventured,  "if  it  turned  out 
that  he  wasn't  bluffing  at  all." 

But  no  one  took  any  notice  of  that  aside. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Mr.  May?"  asked  one. 

"I  shall  turn  up,  of  course,  dear  boy,  and,  like  as  not, 
catch  a  cold  waiting  half  the  night,  while  our  little  friend 
is  sleeping  in  bed.  Tell  you  what:  this  joke  is  too  big  to 
keep  to  oneself.  I'll  pay  the  hire  of  a  wagonette,  then  you 
can  all  slip  off  after  the  show  and  see  the  fun." 

This  spirited  offer  was  received  with  enthusiasm,  and  the 
whole  company  was  on  the  point  of  repairing  to  a  hostelry 
to  honour  the  occasion,  when  Eliphalet  Cardomay,  carrying 
a  small  polished  wooden  case,  came  quietly  through  the 
stage-door.  At  his  approach  the  conversation  died  abruptly, 
and  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  him. 

"Please,"  he  said,  asking  for  a  gangway. 

Someone  touched  his  shoulder,  and  asked: 

"Are  you  fighting  a  duel  to-night,  old  man?" 

"Mr.  May  will  answer  that  question,"  he  replied,  and 
passed  into  the  street. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  demanded  May  in  his  loudest 
tones.  "Isn't  it  wonderful,  eh?" 

"Did  you  notice  what  he  was  carrying?"  said  very 
young  Mr.  Manning. 

"Can't  say  I  did,  unless  it  was  a  soother." 

"He  had  that  old  case  of  pistols  from  the  property-room." 

"Damn  good!"  roared  May;  but  the  laugh  stuck  in  his 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  31 

throat  somehow,  and  lacked  the  quality  of  genuine  mirth. 

The  gifts  bestowed  by  the  gods  upon  Eliphalet  Cardo- 
may  did  not  include  a  very  generous  measure  of  humour, 
or  he  would  scarcely  have  set  about  his  preparations  with 
such  precision  and  calm.  Bearing  the  case  of  old  pinfire 
revolvers,  he  entered  a  gunsmith's  in  High  Street,  and 
asked  for  cartridges. 

The  shop  assistant  examined  the  bore  of  the  weapon 
and  rummaged  about  among  his  stock. 

"I  think  these'll  do,"  he  said,  "but  it's  an  old  pattern 
pistol,  and  this  stuff  has  been  lying  around  some  years. 
We've  a  range  at  the  back,  if  you'd  care  to  try  a  few  shots." 

"I  should,  very  much.  Perhaps  you  would  lend  me  a 
wire  bristle — these  barrels  are  a  trifle  rusty." 

Having  little  to  occupy  him,  the  amiable  assistant  spent 
half-an-hour  in  cleaning  up  the  old  weapons,  and  succeeded 
in  imparting  to  them  a  greatly  rejuvenated  air. 

"Don't  get  much  shooting  in  your  line,  do  you?"  he 
asked.  A  provincial  shopman  recognises,  by  a  kind  of 
second-sight,  every  touring  actor  and  actress  who  visits 
the  town. 

"I  have  practised  a  little,"  returned  Eliphalet,  "for  you 
cannot  use  a  weapon  effectively  on  the  stage  unless  you  are 
acquainted  with  the  right  method." 

They  descended  to  the  basement,  where  there  was  a 
miniature  range,  lighted  with  little  whistling  gas-jets.  The 
assistant  hung  a  target  to  a  clip  and  despatched  it  on  a 
drawn  wire  to  its  appointed  place.  Eliphalet  loaded  the 
pistols,  and  balanced  them  critically  in  his  hand.  Then, 
laying  one  aside,  he  drew  a  bead  and  pressed  the  trigger. 
The  bullet  cut  the  inner  line  at  twelve  o'clock. 

"Throws  up  a  shade,"  he  remarked. 


32  THE   OLD   CARD 

His  second  shot  perforated  the  bull  very  neatly. 

"That's  sound  shooting,"  exclaimed  the  astonished  assis- 
tant. "Try  the  other  one." 

There  was  little  to  choose  between  the  two  revolvers,  and 
when  all  ten  shots  had  been  fired,  the  target  presented  a 
very  pretty  pattern. 

"You've  a  steady  hand.  Before  I  saw  this  I  thought  actors 
lifted  their  elbows  too  much  to  shoot  that  way.  I  like 
your  light  hold  on  the  butt  and  the  thumb  straight  with 
the  barrel — it's  stylish." 

Eliphalet  thanked  him  for  his  praises,  paid  for  fifty  cart- 
ridges, and  after  carefully  cleaning  the  two  weapons,  bade 
him  good  afternoon. 

He  took  his  meal  at  a  chop-house,  and  ate  but  sparingly. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  called  for  paper  and  an  envelope, 
and  wrote  a  farewell  letter  to  Blanche,  to  be  delivered  should 
misadventure  overtake  him.  It  was  rather  a  grandiose  com- 
position, in  which  the  word  "honour"  recurred  with  some 
frequency.  He  placed  it  in  his  pocket,  paid  the  bill,  and 
walked  to  the  theatre. 

The  news  of  the  challenge  had  spread  like  wildfire — 
even  the  stage  hands  and  cleaners  were  in  possession  of 
every  detail.  Wherever  he  went  he  was  followed  by  curious 
glances,  and  often  after  he  had  passed  explosive  but  sup- 
pressed giggles  would  break  out.  It  was  clear  the  com- 
pany was  treating  the  affair  as  a  joke.  Personally,  he 
could  see  very  small  provocation  for  laughter,  but  reflect- 
ing that  with  trivial  minds  mirth  and  calamity  are  close 
companions,  he  made  no  comment.  He  wondered  whether 
Harrington  May  would  laugh  next  morning. 

Eliphalet  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  not  to  kill  his 
antagonist,  but  to  place  a  bullet  in  his  thigh,  trusting  this 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  33 

would  prove  sufficient  punishment  to  meet  with  the  require- 
ments. He  wished  almost  that  the  cause  of  their  quarrel 
had  been  a  woman  of  finer  fibre,  but  that  could  not  be 
helped,  and  the  insult  to  his  pride  was  the  same  in  any  case. 

The  business  of  the  play  proceeded  on  even  lines.  A 
private  affair  could  not  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  a  public 
duty;  but  once  or  twice  he  stumbled  with  his  words  and 
missed  a  cue.  Harrington  May  observed  this,  was  delighted, 
and  noisily  declared  in  the  greenroom,  during  one  of  his 
waits,  that  "Mother's  Boy"  was  in  such  alarm  that  he 
couldn't  "talk  straight." 

The  wagonette  had  been  ordered,  and  towards  the  end 
of  the  play  had  drawn  up  in  a  side  street  to  wait  the  com- 
ing of  the  revellers.  Nearly  everyone  had  brought  with 
them  a  warm  coat  or  wrap,  that  the  elements  might  not 
interfere  with  their  perfect  enjoyment. 

When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act,  Eliphalet  carefully 
dressed  himself,  and  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  his  room, 
when  Blanche  came  in. 

"You  are  a  little  fool,  aren't  you?"  she  said. 

It  is  discouraging  for  a  man  about  to  risk  his  life  for  a 
lady's  sake  to  be  addressed  in  such  terms.  It  was  a  time  for 
guerdons  and  not  rebukes. 

"In  what  manner  am  I  a  fool,  Blanche?" 

"Challenging  May  to  a  duel,  like  that.  Everyone  knows 
about  it,  and  is  laughing  about  it,  too.  Now,  I  suppose 
you  are  going  to  walk  home  as  if  nothing  has  happened.  A 
nice  idiot  it'll  make  me  look,  and  you'll  be  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  theatre  for  ever." 

"I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Why  couldn't  you  punch  his  head,  like  a  man,  and  leave 
it  at  that?" 


34  THE   OLD   CARD 

"I  do  not  consider  to  do  so  would  be  punishment  enough." 

"Better  than  all  this  silly  talking." 

"There  has  been  very  little  talking;  indeed,  I  ought  not 
to  be  talking  now.  There  is  not  much  time  before  the — 
the — appointment. ' ' 

Blanche's  eyes  sought  his  face  with  quick  interrogation. 

"Cardy!"  she  exclaimed.  "You're  not  serious?  You 
don't  really  mean  to ?" 

"Of  course  I  am  serious." 

"But — you  can't — you  mustn't!" 

"I  can  and  will.    There  is  no  going  back  now.    Please." 

But  she  barred  his  way. 

"No — no — no!     I  forbid  you." 

"Please." 

"Oh,  but  you're  joking — joking!  You  couldn't  shoot  him 
— not  for  that.  Besides,  you  wouldn't  know  which  end 
of  the  pistol  to  hold." 

A  man  who  is  playing  a  part  senior  to  his  years  will 
generally  give  himself  away  on  a  detail.  It  was  sheer 
youthful  arrogance  when  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  target 
he  had  decorated  that  afternoon,  and  cast  it  on  the  table 
before  her. 

"I  did  this  at  fifteen  paces,"  he  said. 

The  message  of  the  target  was  plain,  and  Blanche  needed 
no  second  glance.  She  flung  herself  at  her  lover's  feet, 
and  besought  him  to  spare  the  life  of  Harrington  May. 

"It — it  wasn't  all  his  fault,"  she  sobbed.  "I  did  egg  him 
on  a  bit,  just — just  to  stir  you  up." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  and  his  face  was  ominously 
stem. 

"You  achieved  your  object,"  he  replied  at  last.  "We 
must  talk  more  of  this  later,  Blanche.  For  the  rest,  you 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  35 

need  not  be  alarmed.  I  shall  not  kill  this  man,  and  you 
are  free  to  take  what  is  left  of  him,  when  I  have  finished." 
Thrusting  her  aside,  he  picked  up  the  case  of  pistols  and 
hurried  away. 

"Oh,  God!'  cried  Blanche,  and  there  was  admiration  as 
well  as  fear  in  her  voice. 

It  was  rather  wonderful  that  he  would  risk  death  for  her 
sake — but  of  course  it  must  not  happen.  She  must  go  at 
once  and  warn  Harrington  May  of  the  danger.  Then  came 
the  thought,  "Suppose  he,  too,  insists  on  fighting?"  Her 
eyes  glittered.  This  drama  that  centred  about  her  was 
fantastic,  thrilling.  If  he,  too,  were  determined  to  enter 
the  lists,  where  would  her  choice  lie? 

The  corridors  were  deserted,  for  the  company  had  dressed 
hurriedly  and  were  well  away  towards  the  sheltering  bushes 
of  Jesmond  Dene.  As  she  hastened  towards  May's  room 
she  could  hear  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  fly  rattling  over  the 
cobbles  of  the  street  below. 

"Hulloa! "  exclaimed  May.  "Not  gone  to  the  party?  Bet- 
ter come  in  my  cab.  Pity  to  miss  the  fun." 

"It  isn't  fun,"  she  cried.  "He's  in  deadly,  awful  earnest. 
He's  going  to  shoot  you." 

The  leading  man  licked  his  lips  and  smiled  queerly. 

"You  can't  bounce  me,"  he  said. 

"I  swear  it.  I've  just  left  him.  He's  gone  there  with 
the  pistols,  and  he  can  shoot  straight — terribly  straight." 

"Then  it  isn't  a  joke?" 

"A  joke!  He'll  kill  you.  Oh,  Harrington,  you  must  fly 
— get  away — hide  somewhere.  Look:  it's  Saturday  night. 
I'll  let  you  know  if  it's  safe  to  come  back  on  Monday — 
but  you  must  go  now." 


36  THE   OLD   CARD 

"By  God,  if  it's  like  that,  I  will,"  gasped  May,  and 
reached  for  his  coat  and  hat. 

"You  won't  face  him?" 

"I'm  not  looking  for  a  funeral.    Thanks  for  telling  me." 

As  he  clattered  down  the  corridor,  Blanche  called  the 
word  "coward"  after  his  retreating  form. 

It  was  a  very  formidable  and  grim  young  man  who,  half- 
an-hour  later,  alighted  on  the  fringes  of  that  pleasant  dell 
known  as  Jesmond  Dene.  Under  his  arm  he  carried  the 
case  of  pistols,  and  the  lines  about  his  mouth  were  set 
and  hard. 

"You  will  wait,"  he  said,  addressing  the  cabman. 

"Perhaps  I  won't,"  returned  that  gentleman,  who  was 
unaccustomed  to  so  direct  an  order. 

Eliphalet  did  not  deign  to  reply,  but  he  turned  aside 
from  the  road  and  stepped  briskly  down  the  steep  and 
wooded  path.  The  moon  shone  serenely,  casting  dark 
violet  shadows  of  the  trees  upon  the  grey  undergrowth.  He 
knew  the  way,  for  this  had  been  a  favourite  seclusion  when 
learning  new  parts,  and  took  a  short  cut  to  the  appointed 
place. 

"Here  comes  May,"  whispered  one  of  the  concealed  com- 
pany from  his  observation-post  in  the  bushes.  "Keep  your 
hands  down,  you  chaps." 

Eliphalet  passed  within  a  few  feet  of  several  unseen 
onlookers. 

"That  was  May,  wasn't  it?" 

"Couldn't  see  his  face." 

"Must  have  been." 

Young  Manning  spoke. 

"You're  wrong.    It  was  Cardomay." 

There  was  a  ring  of  triumph  in  his  voice. 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  37 

"Don't  talk  rot." 

"Look  for  yourselves,  then." 

Eliphalet  stepped  out  into  the  clearing,  and  the  light 
of  the  moon  showed  his  features  with  a  ghastly  precision. 

One  of  the  girls  gave  a  nervous  laugh,  and  several  men 
turned  to  each  other  with  apprehensive  glances. 

"Lord,  he's  turned  up!"  said  one. 

"This  is  going  too  far,"  said  another.  "We  ought  to 
stop  it.  Here!" 

A  hand  was  clapped  over  his  mouth  by  Harrington  May's 
staunchest  supporter. 

"Don't  spoil  the  fun.    He's  only  bluffing." 

Then  Manning  spoke  again. 

"Wish  I  knew  which  way  they  are  going  to  stand,"  he 
said.  "Likely  as  not  one  of  us'll  pick  up  a  stray  bullet." 

Hearing  which,  Miss  Mary  Neville,  the  ingenue,  did 
what  she  was  accustomed  to  do  in  plays  on  such  occasions — 
fainted.  » 

Far  away  in  the  distance  the  Town  Hall  clock  struck 
twelve.  There  was  a  general  rustle,  as  everyone  verified 
the  time  by  their  own  watches  in  the  little  patches  of 
moonlight. 

"If  May  finds  him  here  there'll  be  trouble." 

"P'r'aps  he  won't  come,"  volunteered  Manning,  and  was 
advised  to  avoid  folly  and  stupid  speculation. 

Eliphalet  laid  a  white  kerchief  on  the  ground — stepped 
out  fifteen  paces,  and  dropped  another.  Then  he  took  out 
the  pistols  and  examined  them.  This  he  did  at  the  pre- 
cise moment  Miss  Neville  emerged  from  her  faint,  and 
caused  an  immediate  relapse.  Satisfied  that  all  was  in 
order  with  the  weapons,  he  laid  them  on  the  top  of  the 


38  THE   OLD   CARD 

case.  His  actions  were  very  concise,  and  he  appeared  quite 
composed. 

"Fact  is,  he  guesses  we're  here,  and  he's  putting  up  a 
big  bluff,"  whispered  Harrington  May's  supporter  into  a 
convenient  ear. 

Then  there  was  silence,  faintly  disturbed  by  the  rustle 
of  the  breeze  and  the  clucking  of  water  dripping  from  the 
mosses  of  the  old  mill-wheel. 

Eliphalet  removed  his  coat  and  looked  at  his  watch.  Ten 
minutes  past  twelve.  The  waiting  was  trying  his  nerves. 
There  should  be  strict  punctuality  in  an  affair  of  honour. 
He  began  pacing  up  and  down,  slowly  at  first,  but  later 
with  a  savage  intensity  of  movement;  when  the  quarter 
past  chimed,  he  tossed  his  head  angrily. 

"Can't  make  out  what's  become  of  May.  He  was  al- 
most dressed  when  we  left  the  theatre." 

"Perhaps "  began  Manning,  then  stopped  as  the  noise 

of  approaching  wheels  and  hoofs  cut  crisply  into  the  silence. 

Eliphalet  heard  it — drew  a  sharp  breath,  and  squared  his 
shoulders  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 

The  excitement  among  the  spectators  leapt  to  fever-pitch 
as  they  heard  the  vehicle  come  to  a  standstill.  There  imme- 
diately followed  the  patter  of  running  feet  and  the  smart 
crackle  of  breaking  twigs. 

"He's  coming! " 

All  eyes  turned  towards  the  path  as  Blanche  Cannon 
burst  into  view.  Without  a  second's  hesitation  she  flung 
herself  into  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  arms,  gasping  and  crying: 

"Oh,  my  hero,  my  darling  hero!  He  was  a  coward — he 
wouldn't  meet  you — he's  run  away." 

And  in  the  exquisite  relief  of  the  moment  Eliphalet  folded 
her  to  his  breast  in  a  sobbing  ecstasy. 


PISTOLS   FOR   TWO  39 

Then  the  company,  who  had  remained  silent  for  longer 
than  their  natures  allowed,  broke  cover  and  surrounded  the 
happy  pair  with  a  chorus  of  hand-shaking,  back-slapping 
congratulations. 

When  the  enthusiasm  subsided,  which  was  not  until  three 
a.m.  that  morning,  for  everyone  crowded  to  Eliphalet's  room 
to  do  him  continued  honour,  he  was  rather  dismayed  to  find 
that  he  and  Blanche  were  destined,  by  pressure  of  opinion, 
to  be  made  man  and  wife  before  the  month  was  out. 

Surmise,  therefore,  O  wise  and  prophetic  reader,  the  dis- 
astrous results,  not  alone  confined  to  Art,  that  so  often 
arise  from  humouring  the  popular  prejudice  in  favour  of 
a  Happy  Ending. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   CURE   THAT   WORKED   WONDERS 

OF  all  conventions  a  happy  ending  is  the  most  perilous. 
It  intrigues  people  into  the  most  improbable  situa- 
tions. It  fawns  upon  the  unthinking  and  offends  the 
thoughtful. 

Happiness  should  arise  from  natural  causes,  and  never 
be  induced  for  the  purposes  of  convenience  or  climax. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay's  early  life  was  saturated  with  plots 
which,  passing  through  a  morass  of  many  tribulations, 
invariably  ended  with  lovers  embracing.  It  was  as  much 
the  inevitable  outcome  of  this  saturation  that  led  him 
to  commit  the  fatal  error  of  making  Blanche  Cannon  his 
wife  as  it  was  to  slacken  his  waistcoat  after  a  repast 
and  sink,  with  drooping  eyelids,  into  a  chair  beneath  an 
open  window.  The  first  was  the  accepted  happy  ending  to 
a  love  episode,  and  the  second  the  plethoric  happy  ending  to 
a  meal ;  and  in  neither  case  did  the  results  justify  the  action. 

His  marriage  ended  sordidly  in  a  cheap  divorce;  and  his 
siesta,  the  one  on  that  particular  afternoon,  in  a  cold. 

Treacherous  germs  await  old  gentlemen  who  sleep  be- 
neath open  windows.  Riding  at  ease  with  the  army  of 
descending  smuts  that  denote  the  industry  of  a  Midland 
town,  they  enter  the  system  and  take  command.  Where- 
fore, ten  days  later,  instead  of  walking  with  sprightly  step 
down  Brigan  High  Street,  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  lying 

40 


THE   CURE  41 

in  bed,  contemplating  M.  Dyson,  of  the  Royal  Theatre, 
Brigan,  with  a  pleading  and  watery  eye.  But  the  manager 
was  not  a  man  to  allow  sentiment  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
business, 

"Any  other  night,  Mr.  Cardomay,"  he  said,  "I'd  have 
bitten  on  the  bullet  and  said,  'Stop  away' — but  this  is  our 
biggest  business  day  in  the  calendar,  and  if  you  go  out  of  the 
bill  .  .  .  "  He  finished  the  sentence  with  an  expressive 
gesture. 

Poor  Eliphalet,  propped  up  with  a  pillow  and  two  cush- 
ions borrowed  from  the  sofa  belowstairs,  looked  pained  as 
well  as  old. 

"Believe  me,"  he  plaintively  remarked,  "I  feel  very  ill. 
I  don't  think  I  could  play  the  Reverend  Barnard  Coles  to- 
night, and  I  know  I  couldn't  do  him  justice.  Really — 
really  I  should  be  grateful  if  you  did  not  press  me  further." 

"Last  thing  I  should  dream  of  doing.  Only  it  comes  a 
bit  hard  on  me,  after  booking  you  solely  for  that  date." 

It  being  obviously  useless  to  appeal  for  sympathy,  Eli- 
phalet fell  back  on  his  second  line  of  defence. 

"But,  don't  you  see,  the  entire  dignity  of  the  part  would 
be  gone  if  he  were  played  with  a  cold." 

"No,  I  don't,"  declared  Mr.  Dyson.  "What's  to  pre- 
vent the  Reverend  Coles,  or  old  Hamlet  himself,  for  that 
matter,  from  blowing  his  nose  like  any  other  mortal?  Now, 
you  take  my  advice — lie  in  snug  all  day,  and  have  some 
rum  and  milk,  and  a  couple  of  boiled  onions  for  lunch." 

"I  am  a  teetotaler,  Mr.  Dyson,  and  also  a  rigid  abstainer 
from  onions,  not  so  much  from  personal  distaste  as  from 
the  knowledge  that  he  whose  breath  is  impregnated  with 
the  aroma  of  that  vegetable  loses  both  friends  and  prestige." 

Suddenly  Mr.  Dyson's  face  brightened. 


42  THE    OLD    CARD 

"By  Jove,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  saw  a  guaranteed  cure  in 
yesterday's  Herald.  Tip-top  thing.  Breaks  the  back  of 
the  worst  cold  in  four  hours.  No  humbug!  There  are 
photos  of  people  who've  benefited  by  it — in  the  Ad."  His 
lynx  eye  lighted  on  a  copy  of  the  journal  in  question  at  the 
moment  Eliphalet  was  drawing  it  into  concealment  beneath 
the  quilt.  "Hi!  you've  got  it  there — half  a  minute — now, 
listen."  And,  shaking  out  the  folds  of  the  crumpled  news- 
sheet,  he  began  to  read. 

"Mrs.  Baxter's  testimony  on  Enoch's  Instantaneous  Cold 
Cure." 

There  followed  a  letter  in  which  the  good  lady  set  forth, 
with  great  lack  of  reserve,  the  painful  and  familiar  symp- 
toms of  her  malady,  stating  how,  after  a  night  of  darkness, 
an  angel  from  Heaven  (disguised  as  a  next-door  neighbour) 
appeared,  and  urged  her  to  try  Enoch's  Instantaneous  Cold 
Cure.  Whereon  she,  despaired  of  by  the  luminaries  of  the 
faculty,  secured  a  phial  of  the  magic  decoction,  which  not 
only  dissipated  the  cold,  but  actually  relieved  her  of  an 
almost  chronic  dyspepsia  and  a  lifelong  tendency  to  sciatic 
rheumatism. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  demanded  Mr.  Dyson,  in 
conclusion. 

"I  am  too  familiar  with  the  form  to  be  greatly  impressed." 

"Will  you  try  a  bottle?" 

"I  had  very  much  rather  not." 

Mr.  Dyson's  mouth  shut  like  a  trap.  "Comes  to  this," 
he  said.  "You  won't  try  to  help  me  out." 

The  poor  invalid  waved  his  head  from  side  to  side. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  conceded.  "I'll  take  it  if  it  gives 
you  any  satisfaction." 

"That's  the  style,"  cried  the  manager.    "I'll  get  you  a 


THE    CURE  43 

bottle  right  away.  Mark  my  words,  you'll  be  fit  for  any- 
thing by  night."  And,  slapping  a  hat  on  his  head,  he 
clattered  from  the  room. 

He  was  back  five  minutes  later  with  a  neat  chemist's 
parcel  in  his  hand.  "Bought  one  for  myself,  too,"  he  said. 
"Felt  a  bit  snivelly  this  morning.  Now,  come  on  and  have 
a  dose  at  once." 

"I  have  just  had  a  little  beef-tea,"  replied  Eliphalet,  "but 
I  promise  to  take  it  in  half-an-hour.  In  the  meantime,  I 
believe,  with  your  assistance,  I  could  snatch  a  few  moments' 
sleep." 

"Don't  see  how  I  can  help  in  that  direction." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Eliphalet;  "but  I  daresay  if  you 
left  me  alone  I  could  manage  it  by  myself." 

"Righto!  See  you  at  the  theatre,  then.  Don't  forget  the 
physic,  mind." 

"I  won't  forget." 

But  he  did  forget.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  Mr.  Dyson 
left,  and  it  was  after  five  when  Eliphalet  awoke  from  a  pro- 
found slumber. 

The  room  was  quite  dark,  save  for  the  light  from  a  street 
lamp  which  percolated  through  the  muslin  curtains  and 
cast  strange  shadows  on  the  ceiling. 

He  sat  up  in  bed  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  The  troublesome 
itching  behind  them  had  abated.  His  nasal  passages  were 
clearer — they  actually  admitted  air. 

"I  believe  I  am  better,"  he  said.  Then,  striking  a  match, 
he  lit  the  gas-jet  by  the  bed,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"A  quarter  past  five!  Old  boy,  if  we  are  going  to  play 
to-night,  we  had  better  get  up." 

Very  unwillingly  he  withdrew  his  feet  from  the  cosy  cov- 
erings and,  as  he  came  to  a  sitting  posture  and  made  a  ten- 


44  THE    OLD    CARD 

tative  search  with  his  toes  for  the  carpet  slippers,  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  little  paper  parcel  where  Mr.  Dyson  had  left 
it. 

"Good  gracious,  I  have  broken  my  promisel"  he  ex* 
claimed.  "I  must  take  the  stuff  at  once." 

He  picked  up  the  parcel,  broke  the  pink  string  and  ex- 
tracted a  small  blue  glass  bottle  bearing  a  label  covered 
all  over  with  microscopic  print. 

"Now,  the  question  is  whether  I  should  not  be  just 
as  well  off  without  this,"  he  mused.  "However!" 

He  withdrew  the  cork  and  smelt  the  fluid  critically.  It 
had  rather  an  agreeable  smell — slightly  sickly,  perhaps,  but 
on  the  whole  pleasant.  In  placing  it  to  his  lips,  he  observed 
the  label. 

"Some  people  would  read  that,"  ran  his  thoughts,  "but 
as  it  probably  deals  with  just  such  another  case  as  Mrs. 
Baxter's,  I  think  I  won't."  And  he  swallowed  the  contents 
of  the  bottle  unto  the  last  drain. 

The  action  was  typical  of  Eliphalet.  Small  details,  not 
connected  with  his  calling,  he  invariably  ignored.  They 
fidgeted  and  oppressed  him,  and  it  is  probable,  but  for  the 
zealous  attentiveness  of  his  dresser,  Potter,  he  would  have 
strode  the  streets  with  buttonless  clothes  and  laceless  boots. 

Certainly  Potter  would  never  have  allowed  his  master  to 
consume  a  bottle  full  of  unexplored  liquid  without  first 
ascertaining  in  what  measure  it  should  be  taken.  But  Pot- 
ter had  been  summoned  to  the  bedside  of  a  departing  aunt, 
and  Eliphalet,  confronted  with  the  problem  of  "doing  for" 
himself,  had  set  about  it  by  the  shortest  route. 

Messrs.  Enoch  had  expressly  stated  on  their  unread  label 
that  not  more  than  thirty  drops  should  be  taken  at  a  single 
dose — and  not  more  than  three  doses  per  diem.  "Taken  in 


THE    CURE  45 

excess,"  so  ran  the  legend,  "the  cure  might  have  effects  prej- 
udicial to  the  system." 

Roughly  speaking,  Eliphalet  Cardomay  had  consumed 
some  three  thousand  drops,  and  already  their  subtle  powers 
were  at  work. 

Being  a  strict  teetotaler,  and  unfamiliar  with  spirituous 
influences,  he  was  at  once  sensible  of  exhilaration  and  a  tin- 
gling warmth  in  his  vitals. 

With  feet  dangling,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  blink- 
ing and  clicking  his  tongue  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

"An  original  flavour,"  he  soliloquised.  "Yes — I  think  I 
like  it."  Then,  donning  a  dressing-gown,  he  crossed  to  the 
fireplace  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Saakes  alive,"  said  the  worthy  Lancashire  landlady,  "ye'll 
never  be  goin'  to  get  oop  with  that  'eavy  cold  an'  all?" 

"Duty  before  ailments,"  observed  Eliphalet  gravely. 
"May  I  have  a  can  of  warm  water  here,  and  a  plate  of  soup 
and  a  rack  of  toast  when  I  come  downstairs?" 

When  the  water  arrived,  accompanied  by  advice  to  get 
back  to  bed,  he  set  about  to  shave  a  twenty-hours'  stubble 
from  his  chin.  It  was  a  spasmodic  effort,  and  he  reflected 
how  rapidly  his  cold  had  pulled  him  down. 

"We  are  getting  old  and  palsied,"  he  confided  to  his 
reflection  in  the  mirror. 

While  washing,  he  experienced  a  novel  and  peculiar  sen- 
sation— just  as  if  all  his  nerves  were  transmitting  electric 
messages  to  their  various  centres — messages  which  seemed 
to  run,  "I'm  having  a  riotous  time  here — what's  the  news 
with  you?"  Moreover,  he  had  a  curious  conviction  that  his 
brain-cells  were  opening  and  closing  in  the  most  unusual 
way.  Little  glimpses  of  long-forgotten  incidents  raced  across 
his  mental  screen,  to  disappear  or  be  obliterated  by  some 


46  THE   OLD    CARD 

succeeding  impression.  During  the  process  of  putting  on 
his  collar  and  tie  quite  eight  such  pictures  came  and  went. 
He  saw  himself  as  a  tiny  boy,  dressed  up  in  a  white  suit 
and  white  shoes  and  socks,  going  to  a  circus  with  his  father. 
He  remembered  how  Eliphalet  No.  1  had  stopped  to  speak 
to  a  friend,  and  how  he  had  filled  in  the  weary  wait  by  pad- 
dling through  a  four-inch  slough  of  mud,  swept  up  by  the 
roadside.  He  was  on  the  point  of  laughing  at  the  recol- 
lection when  it  struck  him  that  there  was  nothing  to  laugh 
at  in  a  man's  last  words  to  his  wife — how  vividly  the  trum- 
pery appointments  of  that  room  recurred  to  him,  and  the 
silly  threats  she  had  made — and  how — they  applauded  on 
his  first  appearance  in  "The  Corsican  Brothers."  He  had 
held  his  head  high  that  night,  and  the  pavement  outside  the 
stage-door  was  thronged  with  an  eager  and  waiting  crowd, 
and — all  the  theatrical  profession  were  there  when  Elipha- 
let senior  was  laid  to  rest.  "A  Great  Tragedian,"  old  Toole 
had  said,  and  he  had  replied,  "A  wonderful  father,  sir."  And 
what  a  night  of  it  they  had  (the  early  'seventies,  wasn't  it) 
— He  and  a  dozen  other  bloods  put  a  barricade  of  beer-bar- 
rels across  the  top  of  the  Hay-market — Jermyn  and  Panton 
Street — and  no  one  was  allowed  to  go  past  without  a  drink. 
He  was  not  a  teetotaler  then.  That  had  been  proved  by  the 
magistrate's  comments  at  the  Police  Court  on  the  following 
morning.  How  his  head  had  ached.  Was  his  head  aching 
now?  Not  a  bit — a  little  dizzy,  perhaps — that  was  from 
the  cold — but  the  cold  was  better — much  better.  Fine  stuff 
Enoch's  Instantaneous — Enoch! 

"And  forty  little  laughing  boys 
Came  running  out  of  school." 


THE   CURE  47 

Was  that  Enoch  Arden — or  Eugene  Aram?  Either  or 
neither?  What  did  it  matter?  Where  was  his  coat? — where 
was  it? 

'Totter!"  he  called— then,  "Dear  me!  how  stupid!"  Pot- 
ter, he  remembered,  was  at  his  aunt's  funeral — or  was  it 
christening? 

He  found  the  coat  on  the  far  side  of  the  bed,  where, 
careless  of  everything,  ill  and  miserable,  he  had  cast  it 
before  flinging  himself  between  the  blankets.  Strange  he 
should  have  felt  so  ill  overnight,  when  now 

He  slapped  his  chest  and  sang  an  arpeggio. 

"La-di-da-daa!     Resonant,  my  boy,  and  of  good  timbre." 

"Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate." 

He  stooped  to  pick  up  his  hat,  and  kicked  it  clown-fash- 
ion right  across  the  room.  A  second  effort  was  more  suc- 
cessful, but,  oddly  enough,  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  pho- 
tographed itself  vividly  upon  the  retina  of  his  eyes.  He  was 
still  aware  of  it  when  he  returned  to  the  perpendicular. 

There  were  angles  and  shapes  in  yellow  and  green  on  a 
red  ground  which  danced  before  them  as  he  descended  the 
stairs — the  stairs  that  had  such  an  awkward  twist  he  had 
never  before  noticed.  "They  tell  me,"  he  gravely  announced 
to  Mrs.  Beecher,  who  had  come  into  the  hall  at  the  sound 
of  his  approach,  "they  tell  me  that  one  of  the  most  difficult 
achievements  is  to  put  a  spiral  staircase  into  perspective." 

"Aye — well,  a've  put  soup  on  table;  you  ought  to  take 
cab  to  theatre,"  responded  the  good  lady. 

Eliphalet  was  touched  to  a  point  of  exaggeration. 

"What  a  happy  and  fortunate  man  your  good  husband  is 


48  THE   OLD   CARD 

to  possess  such  a  wife."  And  so  saying,  he  took  his  hat 
from  the  hall  stand  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

The  keen  evening  air  felt  like  a  cool  hand  upon  his  brow, 
and  Eliphalet  hummed  to  himself  as  he  went.  He  turned 
into  the  High  Street  as  the  Town  Hall  clock  struck  six. 

Six!  He  was  very  early.  The  curtain  didn't  rise  until 
7.30,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  ample  time  to  assume  the 
clerical  garb  of  the  Reverend  Coles.  Wherefore  he  had  a 
full  hour  to  spend  as  he  liked,  and  it  was  a  delicious  evening 
for  a  walk. 

Beyond  the  fringe  of  factory  chimneys  lay  rolling  downs 
and  green  valleys — valleys  with  light-hearted  brooks  chuck- 
ling among  the  stones.  Years  had  passed  since  he  sat  beside 
a  brook,  with  the  water  thrilling  his  bare  toes — and  all  of 
a  sudden  a  great  desire  possessed  him  to  be  alone  in  a  soli- 
tude of  water  and  willows. 

There  was  a  policeman  standing  a  few  paces  away,  and 
to  him  Eliphalet  said  : 

"Could  you  direct  me  to  a  valley  with  a  stream  running 
through  it — where  I  can  be  all  to  myself — alone?" 

The  policeman,  a  broad-beamed  Lancashire  lad,  regarded 
him  suspiciously. 

"I  can  tell  you  where  you'll  be  alone  all  right,"  he  re- 
sponded, "and  happen  you'll  find  yourself  there  sooner  than 
you  expect  unless  you  get  a  move  on." 

"But  why?" 

"Get  off." 

"But,  look  here,"  said  Eliphalet  very  seriously.  "When  I 
was  a  younger  man  I  used  to  count  the  buttons  on  police- 
men's coats."  And  with  this  grave  admission,  he  turned 
away.  He  had  not  gone  more  than  twenty  yards  before 
bis  attention  was  attracted  by  two  small  boys  and  a  little 


THE   CURE  49 

girl,  their  noses  glued  to  the  windows  of  a  confectioner's. 

"Are  you  hungry?"  he  demanded. 

All  three  turned  their  attention  from  the  magnetic  charms 
of  mince-pies  and  Maids-of-Honour  to  the  aesthetic  and 
deeply-seamed  features  of  Eliphalet  Cardomay.  There  was 
something  in  his  countenance  which  at  once  dispelled  any  in- 
clinations to  tell  untruths.  It  was  such  an  open  and  kindly 
face — like  that  of  an  old  baby — and  the  child  he  had  ad- 
dressed turned  from  the  contemplation  of  it  to  judge  the 
effect  his  words  had  made  upon  the  other  two. 

Presently  the  little  girl  replied,  "Noa,  us  isn't  'oongry,  but 
us  cud  do  wi'  soom  of  they  there." 

"So  could  I,"  said  Eliphalet.    "Come  along." 

At  the  head  of  this  little  ragged  band  he  entered  the  shop 
and  addressed  a  comfortable  looking  matron  who  was  arrang- 
ing macaroons  on  a  glass  stand. 

"We  have  come  to  eat  cakes,  madam,"  he  announced. 
"Chelsea  buns,  tarts  with  jam  on  them,  doughnuts  and  sweet 
almond  biscuits.  We  are  not  hungry,  you  understand,  but 
we  want  these  things,  for  the  children  do  not  know  their  fla- 
vours— and  I  have  forgotten  them." 

So  the  good  lady,  who  was  a  motherly  soul,  established 
them  at  a  little  marble-topped  table  and  brought  many  deli- 
cacies, and  Eliphalet,  an  Easter  cake  in  one  hand  and  a 
marzipan  potato  in  the  other,  began  to  talk.  He  told  them 
many  little  incidents  of  his  own  childhood — his  voice  sound- 
ing very  far  away.  He  told  them  the  plot  of  Julius  Caesar 
and  how  he  would  like  to  be  a  grandfather — or  a  father — 
and  what  he  intended  to  put  on  for  this  spring  season,  and 
about  a  villa  at  New  Brighton  where  he  would  live  when 
he  retired. 


50  THE    OLD    CARD 

And  all  the  while  the  children  swallowed  the  cakes  and 
thought  him  amiable  but  mad. 

It  was  seven-fifteen  when  the  feast  was  suddenly  broken 
up  by  the  violent  entry  of  Mr.  Dyson. 

He  had  called  at  Eliphalet's  rooms  and  learnt  of  his 
unusual  departure,  and  when  the  actor  did  not  put  in  an 
appearance  at  the  theatre,  had  hastened  out  in  great  alarm 
to  search  the  neighbourhood. 

"It  was  sheer  luck  that  I  saw  you  through  the  window," 
he  cried.  "Do  you  know  what  the  time  is?" 

"How  should  I,  since  it  waits  for  no  man?"  said  Eliphalet. 

"You've  got  barely  ten  minutes  to  get  on  the  stage." 

This  startling  announcement  brought  Eliphalet  abruptly 
to  his  feet. 

"Dear  me!  I  had  forgotten.  There  are  so  few  children 
in  my  life.  Madam,  please,"  he  placed  half  a  sovereign 
on  the  counter,  and  shook  his  head  at  the  proffered  change. 
"Give  it  to  them  in  a  bag.  Come,  Dyson.  Ten  minutes,  you 
said." 

As  they  hurried  from  the  shop  one  of  the  children  asked, 
"Is  yon  his  keeper,  missus?" 

Mr.  Dyson  gripped  him  by  the  arm  and  dragged  him 
along. 

"Gave  me  the  scare  of  my  life.  How  did  you  come  to 
overlook  what  the  hour  was?" 

"That's  what  I  must  have  done,"  replied  Eliphalet  hazily. 

"Hope  you  took  that  stuff  all  right?" 

"Yes — I  think  so.  Fancy  I  ought  to  have  another  dose. 
Let's  stop  and  buy  some  more." 

"No  time.  I'll  give  you  some  at  the  theatre.  Hurry 
along." 

The  local  dresser  was  not  a  man  of  marked  intelligence 


THE   CURE  51 

or  great  celerity  of  action,  but  he  contrived  to  get  Elipha- 
let  into  the  outer  coverings  of  the  Reverend  Barnard  Coles  in 
less  than  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Mr.  Dyson,  busily  employed  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
sent  round  his  bottle  of  Enoch's  Instantaneous,  half  of  which 
Eliphalet  drank.  He  would  probably  have  drunk  the  rest, 
had  not  the  cork  been  pushed  inwards  and  floated  across  the 
neck  of  the  bottle  before  he  had  finished  the  contents. 

Just  before  his  entrance,  Mr.  Dyson  rushed  round  with 
a  few  words  of  warning. 

"Clinkin'  house,"  he  said.  "Packed  out — but  they  may 
want  holding." 

"Thass  all  right— we  know." 

"Feeling  pretty  good  in  yourself?" 

Eliphalet  took  a  deep  breath,  closed  his  eyes  and  exhaled 
heavily.  At  that  instant  he  heard  his  cue.  Alert  at  once, 
he  opened  the  door  and  walked  on  to  the  stage.  The  lights 
dazzled  him.  He  was  struck  with  a  consciousness  of  some- 
thing left  undone.  What  was  it?  Ah!  he  had  failed  to 
answer  Mr.  Dyson's  question.  Wherefore  he  promptly 
replied: 

"No,  I  feel  rather  funny." 

There  was  the  usual  burst  of  complimentary  applause, 
and  in  an  instant  he  was  the  Reverend  Barnard  Coles,  about 
to  be  deserted  by  wife  and  child. 

Eliphalet  played  the  first  act  of  "The  Broken  Heart"  very 
cautiously.  Without  suspecting  that  anything  was  radically 
wrong  with  him,  he  felt  that  he  must  be  wary.  Once  or 
twice  his  articulation  had  struck  him  as  peculiar.  He  had 
shied  badly  over  the  word  "constantly" — "consanny"  was 
the  nearest  approach  he  had  been  able  to  make  to  the  correct 
pronunciation.  Then  again,  sundry  speeches  had  become 


52  THE   OLD    CARD 

unexpectedly  involved.  For  example,  he  had  to  say,  "You 
with  your  great  eyes,  your  scarlet  mouth  and  your  white 
face,  are  ever  before  me,  a  barrier  which  shuts  me  off  from 
God." 

What  he  actually  said  was: 

"You,  with  your  white  eyes — your  great  mouth — and 
your  scarlet  face,"  etc.  Fortunately  he  had  put  so  much 
passion  into  the  lines  that  no  one  noticed  the  slight  con- 
fusion of  adjectives.  That  is  to  say,  no  one  on  the  audi- 
ence side  of  the  curtain;  but  Freddie  Manning,  the  stage- 
manager,  who  had  known  Eliphalet  as  a  man  of  temperance 
during  a  constant  association  of  countless  years,  tipped  his 
bowler  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head  and  quoted  briefly  from 
the  Bible. 

"Syd,"  he  said,  addressing  the  call-boy,  "slip  along  for 
a  glass  of  cold  water  and  stand  with  it  at  the  door  the 
Guv'nor  comes  off  by." 

The  call-boy  grinned  and  went  on  his  errand  whistling 
a  song,  the  words  of  which  dealt  with  the  pleasures  of 
alcoholic  excess. 

Catching  the  implied  suggestion,  Mr.  Manning,  nothing 
if  not  loyal,  directed  the  toe  of  his  boot  at  the  seat  of  the 
young  musician's  trousers. 

"I  say!  What's  wrong  with  the  Guv'nor?"  asked  the 
lady  who  played  the  villainess. 

"Nothing,  my  dear,"  was  the  curt  reply. 

"But  he's  been  saying  the  most  extraordinary  things," 
she  persisted. 

"Has  'e?    Well,  don't  you  bother  about  it." 

This  conversation  took  place  just  before  the  series  of 
events  leading  to  the  finale  of  Act  I. 

The  scene,  as  written,  ran  thus:     The  worthy  Vicar, 


THE   CURE  53 

deserted  by  wife  and  child — beset  by  an  intriguing 
woman — sinks  down  before  his  writing-desk  and  buries 
his  face  in  his  hands.  After  a  few  seconds  of  silent  agony 
he  rises,  straightens  himself — like  a  man  determined  to  bear 
his  burden  with  unbent  back — and  strides  from  the  room. 

No  sooner  has  he  gone  than  two  paid  desperadoes  make 
burglarious  entry  by  the  French  windows,  and  steal  from 
his  safe  papers  proving  him  to  have  been  guilty  of  a  crime 
years  before.  As  they  are  escaping,  the  Reverend  Barnard 
Coles  returns,  and  cries  "Who's  there?"  He  tries  to  arrest 
their  flight,  and  is  brutally  struck  down. — CURTAIN. 

Now  when  the  wicked  lady  left  the  stage,  on  this  particu- 
lar night,  Eliphalet  was  perfectly  clear  about  what  he  had 
to  do.  It  was  the  author's  intention  he  should  stagger  to 
his  writing-table — and  stagger  he  did,  most  realistically. 
He  supported  himself  with  one  hand  and  switched  pff  the 
table  lamp  with  the  other,  leaving  the  stage  in  darkness,  save 
for  the  crimson  rays  from  the  fireplace,  which  encarmined 
his  form  during  the  few  moments  of  grief  and  prayer  before 
his  exit. 

With  the  reduction  of  the  light  Eliphalet  experienced  a 
totally  unlooked-for  sensation  in  his  head — a  dizziness,  a 
vertigo.  He  sank  into  the  chair  and  buried  his  face,  and 
then 

I  would  not  dream  of  suggesting  any  reader  of  this  story 
would  be  likely  to  have  personal  knowledge  of  the  sensa- 
tions which  sudden  darkness  brings  to  persons  who  have 
over-stepped  the  margins  of  sobriety.  I  am  credibly  in- 
formed, however,  by  contrite,  but  experienced  authorities, 
that  peculiar  and  various  illusions  occur.  As  a  general  rule, 
either  the  floor  comes  up,  or  the  ceiling  descends,  and  this 
with  a  rotary  and  oscillating  motion. 


54  THE    OLD    CARD 

So  long  as  the  darkness  prevails  there  is  no  escape  for 
the  unhappy  sufferer,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  is  seldom  wise 
enough  to  escape  from  the  darkness. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  had  not  been  drinking.  On  the  other 
hand,  who  but  an  analyst  could  say  what  potent  drugs  went 
to  the  manufacture  of  Enoch's  Instantaneous? 

No  sooner  had  his  head  fallen  into  his  hands  than  he 
felt  himself  borne  aloft — spirally  ascending  to  some  giddy 
pinnacle,  rising  above  and  above  the  level  of  earthly  clay. 

He  could  not  combat  the  forces  at  work — they  were  irre- 
sistible. He  could  only  cling  to  the  edges  of  the  writing- 
table  and  wait — and,  waiting,  ascend.  "And  singing,  ever 
soaring — and  soaring  as  thou  singest,"  he  quoted. 

A  frantic  assistant  stage-manager  deserted  the  prompt 
corner  and  grasped  Freddie  Manning  by  the  arm. 

"The  Guv-nor's  stuck  on,"  he  gasped.  "Ought  to  have 
been  off  half  a  minute  ago.  Looks  as  if  he  won't  move." 

Mr.  Manning  dived  into  the  O.P.,  and  took  in  the  situa- 
tion at  a  glance.1 

"Shall  I  ring  down?"  queried  the  A.S.M. 

"No.  Check  your  red  arc  in  the  fireplace.  Here,  you 
chaps,"  he  addressed  the  two  burglars.  "Go  and  pretend 
you  don't  see  him.  Play  the  scene  quiet,  and  just  as  you 
come  off,  spot  him  and  use  the  life-preserver.  Got  it?  Right 
away,  then!" 

He  was  Napoleonic  in  crises,  was  Mr.  Manning.  "One 
could  always  rely  on  Freddie,"  was  a  byword  in  Cardomay's 
company. 

The  two  miscreants  climbed  noiselessly  over  the  win- 
dow-sill, just  as  the  audience  was  beginning  to  find  the 
Reverend  Coles'  anguish  a  shade  protracted;  with  panther 


THE   CURE  55 

steps  they  approached  the  safe,  inserted  the  key  and  with- 
drew the  incriminating  papers. 

And  all  the  while  Eliphalet  clung  on  to  the  table  and 
wondered  where  he  was  and  what  strange  machinery  was 
hoisting  him  heavenward.  He  solved  the  mystery  at  the 
exact  moment  the  thieves  had  finished  their  work. 

He  was  in  a  lift,  that  fierce  little  lift  at  the  Army  and 
Navy  Stores.  He  was  a  liftman — he  had  been  a  liftman 
for  years.  In  another  half-second  they  would  arrive  at 
the  first  floor. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  clatter — flung  up  his 
head,  and  the  words  rang  out: 

"This  is  the  drapery,  stationery  and  ironmongery  depart- 
mins " 

The  affrighted  burglars  staggered  back  as  Eliphalet  rose 
to  his  feet,  and  cried,  "This  is  the  jewelry,  toys,  games,  and 
saddlery  departmins." 

The  hindmost  burglar  pushed  his  companion  forward. 

"Slash  him,  Jake!"  he  hissed. 

The  blow  was  struck — Eliphalet  fell,  and  with  him  the 
curtain. 

Up  went  the  lights,  and  Freddie  Manning  rushed  on  to 
the  stage. 

"No  calls,"  he  shouted.    "Clear,  everyone.    Strike,  boys!" 

The  big  scene  flats  split  up  into  sections  and  marched 
miraculously  away. 

"Come  on,  Guv'nor."  He  stretched  out  a  hand  and  helped 
Eliphalet  to  his  feet. 

"I  think,"  said  Eliphalet  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way,  "I  am 
not  very  well  to-night." 

"You're  all  right,"  said  Manning.  "I'll  give  you  a  hand 
to  your  dressing-room." 


56  THE   OLD   CARD 

Half-way  down  the  long  stone  corridor  Eliphalet  hung 
back  and  resisted. 

"Dunno  whether  iss  struck  you,  but  I  think  we're  having 
an  allfully  jolly  evening,  oP  boy." 

"You  get  changed,"  remarked  Manning  grimly,  and 
handed  him  over  to  the  dresser. 

When  he  returned  to  the  stage  he  found  several  members 
of  the  company  talking  together  in  animated  whispers. 

He  at  once  projected  himself  into  their  midst. 

"If  I  hear  man  or  woman  saying  the  Guv'nor's  drunk,"  he 
said,  "he  or  she  gets  the  sack — quick.  Got  that?"  And, 
cocking  his  hat  over  his  right  eye,  he  marched  off. 

Before  the  curtain  the  simple  audience  were  discussing 
the  play. 

"What's  he  mean  when  he  says  that  bit  about  the  drapery 
department?"  demanded  the  young  lady. 

Her  companion  shook  her  head  darkly,  and  volunteered: 

"It's  the  grief  'as  turned  'is  brain." 

"Ah!  that  must  be  it.    Gone  loopy  like." 

Eliphalet,  in  his  dressing-room,  was  in  a  fine  rage. 

"Get  that  cork  out,  d'y'hear! "  he  admonished.  "How  the 
deuce  am  I  to  take  med-cine  with  the  cork  in?" 

"A  didna  knaw  tha  wanted  any  more,"  said  the  dresser. 

"  'S  no  excuse.  Get  it  out!  My  cold's  worse — mush 
worse.  Le's  have  it."  And,  snatching  the  bottle,  he  knocked 
off  its  neck  and  drank  what  remained  of  the  fluid. 

"You  don'  seem  to — t'understand  I'm  a  ver'  important 
pers'n — great  actor — Eliphalet  Card'may.  You're  a  low  fel- 
ler— but  a  good  chap — one  of  the  nicest  and  mos'  delight- 
ful chaps  I  ever  met " 

"Second  act  beginners,  please,"  yelled  the  call-boy. 

Eliphalet  passed  a  hand  over  his  brow.    "Dear  me!"  he 


THE   CURE  57 

said.  "I  dunno.  Yes,  yes — I'm  coming — I'm  all  ri',  qui' 
all  ri'." 

And  he  made  his  way  to  the  stage. 

By  a  Herculean  effort  he  struggled  through  Act  II.  His 
voice  was  a  shade  thick — his  gait  a  thought  unsteady — his 
rendering  distinctly  heterodox;  but  the  audience  was  mainly 
composed  of  simple,  uninitiated  folk  who  accepted  what 
was  placed  before  them  without  much  questioning.  They 
had  been  assured  for  three  weeks  past,  on  every  hoarding 
in  the  city,  that  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  a  great  actor. 
And  since  the  ways  of  the  great  are  ever  incomprehensible, 
it  behove  them,  as  groundlings,  to  give  genius  its  due  and 
applaud  exceedingly  at  the  end  of  the  act. 

Unhappily,  Mr.  Dyson,  manager  and  part  owner  of  the 
theatre,  did  not  reflect  the  feelings  of  his  supporters.  He 
had  seen  the  act,  with  growing  indignation,  and  realised 
he  was  not  getting  what  he  had  paid  for.  In  short,  that 
Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  giving  a  rotten  show  for  the  sim« 
pie  reason  that  he  was  "boosed."  Mr.  Dyson  was  not  a 
man  to  shirk  duty,  however  unpleasant  it  might  be.  Ao 
cordingly  he  hurried  round  to  Eliphalet's  dressing-room, 
pushed  open  the  door  and  stalked  inside. 

"You  get  out,"  he  said  to  the  dresser,  and  when  the 
man  had  gone,  "Look  here,  Mr.  Cardomay.  You're  boosed 
— boosed." 

"Boosed"  was  a  favourite  word  of  Mr.  Dyson's,  and, 
on  certain  occasions,  a  favourite  pastime.  This  circum- 
stance, however,  did  not  make  him  any  more  tolerant  of 
the  failing  in  others. 

Eliphalet  was  lying  full-length  in  a  dilapidated  arm-chair, 
his  hands  hanging  limply  over  the  sides.  Certainly  his 


58  THE   OLD   CARD 

general  appearance  gave  ample  excuse  for  Mr.  Dyson's 
charge. 

Through  a  mental  fog  he  became  vaguely  aware  of  the 
manager's  presence.  With  a  faint  smile  he  murmured: 

"Whassay?" 

"You're  boosed." 

"Boosed?    Who's  boosed?  Wha's  boose?" 

"You  are — and  you've  got  to  pull  yourself  together.  See?" 

Eliphalet  blinked,  then  sat  upright. 

"Good  God! "  he  exclaimed.    "D'you  sugges'  I'm  drunk?" 

"I  know  it — and  what's  more,  the  audience'll  know  it,  too, 
if  you  aren't  jolly  careful." 

The  old  actor  rose  to  his  feet,  his  face  working  as  under 
a  great  emotion. 

"You  dare  say  that  t'me!  I — I'm  a  tee-to-tootler — for 
twenty — twenty-five  years.  Loathe  drink — nev'  touch  it. 
I'm — I'm  one — one — " 

"You're  one  of  the  rowdy-dowdy  boys  to-night,"  cut  in 
Mr.  Dyson  crisply. 

The  fog  descended  again,  and  Eliphalet  swayed  on  the 
back  of  the  chair. 

"Tha's  it,"  he  said.  "One  of  the  dowdy  boys — all  in  a 
row." 

Mr.  Dyson  flung  open  the  door,  shouting: 

"Where's  your  understudy?" 

At  that  moment  Freddie  Manning  came  down  the  cor- 
ridor. 

"What's  the  row?"  he  demanded. 

"He's  drunk!" 

"Drop  that,"  said  the  loyal  S.M. 

"Look  at  him!" 

Eliphalet  was  leaning  on  the  door,  and  he  sang: 


THE   CURE  59 

"Then  next  morning  before  the  beak  we're  feshed." 

"He's  ill,"  came  from  Manning. 

"111!     He's  boosed,  and  I  won't  have  him  go  on — see?" 

Mr.  Manning  shoved  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 
and  said: 

"If  he  is,  no  one  is  going  to  say  so  before  me." 

"Where's  his  understudy?" 

"You  look  after  the  front  of  the  house  and  leave  the 
back  to  me.  Clear  out!" 

"He's  blind  to  the  wide." 

Mr.  Manning  jerked  back  the  cuff  of  his  sleeve  and  shut 
his  teeth  tight.  The  faces  of  the  disputants  were  barely 
two  inches  apart.  The  dresser  came  into  the  room,  and 
Eliphalet  passed  noiselessly  out.  Chuckling  stupidly,  he 
made  his  way  to  the  stage. 

"Take  up  the  curtain,"  he  ordered,  and  the  assistant  stage- 
manager,  accustomed  to  years  of  implicit  obedience,  touched 
the  bell,  and  the  curtain  rose. 

"Excuse  me,"  the  dresser  was  saying.  "A  doan't  think 
t'  poor  gentleman's  droonk.  A  think  t'is  physic  as  'as  oop- 
set  'im.  'E's  been  taking  doases  very  free  from  this  'ere." 
And  he  held  aloft  the  empty  bottle  of  Enoch's  Instantane- 
ous. 

The  stage-manager  seized  the  bottle  and  read  the  label. 

"Did  he  take  the  lot?" 

"Aye,  and  another  bottle  beside." 

"Drugged! — p'raps  he's  killed  himself."  Then,  in  a  roar: 
"Where  the  hell  did  he  get  the  stuff?" 

Mr.  Dyson  fell  back  a  step  and  covered  his  mouth  guilt- 
ily. 

"You?"  Manning  jerked  out  the  monosyllable  threaten- 
ingly. 


60  THE   OLD    CARD 

"I  did  mention — I — I  told  him  it  was  good,"  faltered 
Mr.  Dyson. 

"Then,"  said  Freddie  Manning,  "you'll  go  right  on  be- 
fore the  curtain  and  tell  the  house  just  exactly  what's  hap- 
pened. The  Guv-nor's  going  home  to  bed  right  now,  and, 
look  here  again,  you'd  better  state  the  facts  pretty  lucid, 
for  I  swear  I'll  break  your  neck  if  it  gets  about  that  the 
Guv'nor  was  tight." 

From  the  distance  came  the  sound  of  a  mighty  roar  of 
laughter.  Simultaneously  they  turned  and  saw,  for  the 
first  time,  that  Eliphalet  Cardomay  had  gone. 

"He's  on!"  exclaimed  Manning  and,  followed  by  Mr. 
Dyson,  made  a  dash  for  the  wings. 

He  was  on!  That  was  the  opinion  of  the  entire  audi- 
ence. 

One  of  the  great  dramatic  moments  of  the  play  had  been 
Wrecked  and  lay  in  splinters  on  the  stage.  A  scene,  the 
moving  nature  of  which  would  have  wrung  tears  from  a 
stone,  had,  by  a  single  line,  been  turned  into  an  ecstasy  of 
laughter. 

The  wife  and  child  of  the  melancholy  but  Reverend  Coles, 
having  seen  through  the  falsity  of  the  life  they  had  chosen, 
and  battered  by  the  glittering  villainies  of  Black  Mous- 
tache's patent  leather  boots  and  doubtful  champagne,  had 
returned  weepingly,  to  implore  his  forgiveness  and  his  bless- 
ing, and  he,  instead  of  replying,  "I  forgive  and  bless  you," 
had  smiled  idiotically  and  said,  "Chase  me!" 

The  house  rocked  and  fell  about  with  laughter. 

The  unprecedented  success  of  his  sally  made  a  profound 
impression  upon  Eliphalet.  He  saw  himself  as  a  comedian — 
a  funny  man.  The  last  of  his  self-control  fell  from  him, 
and  he  gave  himself  over  to  rickety  horse-play  and  clumsy 


THE   CURE  61 

mafficking.  He  overset  chairs  and  tables,  and  laughed 
stupidly.  He  turned  tragedy  into  farce,  and  the  Reverend 
Coles  from  a  figure  of  pathos  became  a  figure  of  fun. 

The  "mother"  and  "daughter,"  friends  of  many  pre- 
ceding tours,  strove  nobly,  but  without  avail,  to  keep  the 
scene  together,  and  were  eventually  driven  from  the  stage 
in  desperation,  and  genuine  tears.  Then  the  temper  of  the 
audience,  who  knew  real  tears  from  the  acted  variety,  under- 
went a  complete  change,  and  became  nasty. 

"'Ee!     Tha's  droonk,  man!" 

"Shame  to  un!     Pull  un  orf." 

"Booooo-booooo! " 

"Ought  to  'ave  our  money  back." 

"Comin'  on  like  that." 

"Spoiling  of  a  fine  play!" 

"Get  orf— get  orf!" 

"Sling  summat  at  un!" 

"Shame !     Booooo ! !     Ssssss !  I " 

While  the  tumult  progressed  Eliphalet  leaned  upon  a 
palm  pedestal  and  surveyed  the  house  with  a  mystified 
expression.  He  thought  they  were  applauding  him,  and 
bowed  his  acknowledgment  (incidentally  knocking  over 
the  palm  and  pedestal!).  There  was  a  fresh  uproar.  Evi- 
dently they  were  not  applauding — something  must  be  wrong. 
What?  He  held  up  his  hand,  and  his  great  bass  voice 
rang  out  with  unexpected  volume. 

"Silence!"  And  they  were  silent.  "I  was  warned  you'd 
want  holding,  and  I'll  hold  you." 

A  shout  of  derision  was  hurled  from  the  gallery. 

"I'll  hold  you  yet,"  said  Eliphalet,  rocking  to  and  fro. 

Then  a  carrot  whizzed  through  the  air  and  fell  with  a 
plump  at  his  feet. 


62  THE    OLD    CARD 

A  carrot!  The  vegetable  of  derision — the  symbol  of 
contempt — the  food  of  asses — to  him,  Eliphalet  Cardomayl 

And  the  mists  cleared  from  his  brain  and  the  wayward- 
ness from  his  limbs. 

"Ladies — gentlemen!"  he  cried.  "I  am  ill — very  ill! 
I  can't  understand — never — never  before  have  I  failed  my 
audience.  Let  me  finish  the  play — give  me  a  hearing,  or 
break  my  heart." 

There  was  a  lull,  and  Freddie  Manning,  in  the  wings, 
seized  the  character  with  whom  the  next  scene  was  played, 
and  with,  "Get  on  and  don't  give  him  time  to  think,"  hurled 
him  on  to  the  stage. 

Twice  before  the  end  of  the  act  the  mists  rose  before  Eli- 
phalet's  brain,  but  he  battled  them  down  by  sheer  force  of 
will,  though  the  effort  brought  beads  of  sweat  to  his  brow. 
With  grim  determination  he  hammered  out  his  lines  until 
the  last  one  had  been  spoken,  and  there  remained  naught 
else  but  the  heart-attack — ;he  clutching  at  his  breast — the 
bVoken  cry  of  "Mary!"  and  the  fall  into  peace — oblivion. 

The  curtain  had  barely  touched  the  boards  before  Mr. 
Manning  had  thrust  the  manager  before  it. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Dyson,  "I  have  not 
come  here  to  make  an  apology,  but  to  say  that  you  have 
been  privileged  to-night  to  witness  a  performance  under, 
perhaps,  the  most  remarkable  circumstances  under  which 
a  man  has  ever  appeared."  And  to  the  best  of  his  ability 
he  told  them  what  had  happened.  When  he  had  finished 
it  was  obvious  to  the  meanest  intelligence  that  the  applause 
savoured  of  the  sceptical. 

"Won't  do,"  said  Freddie  Manning,  and  pushed  his  way 
before  the  footlights. 

"Easy  there!     You're  not  going  yet,"  he  cried.    "Some 


THE   CURE  63 

of  you  believe  it  was  a  yarn  the  manager  has  just  put  over. 
But  I  tell  you  it's  true,  and  if  any  man  here  to-night  goes 
home  and  says  that  my  Guv'nor  and  my  friend,  Mr.  Car- 
domay,  was  drunk,  he'll  be  steering  a  straight  course  for 
the  libel  court — and  what's  more,  he'll  get  this,"  and  he  held 
up  a  closed  first  with  a  row  of  shiny  knuckles  turned  out- 
ward. "He'll  get  this  between  the  eyes — an'  that's  a  prom- 
ise I'll  keep." 

Right  into  the  hearts  of  those  hard-bit  Lancashire  lads 
went  those  "straight-flung  words,"  and  such  a  roar  of  en- 
thusiasm followed  them  as  would  have  wakened  the  dead. 

But  it  failed  to  waken  Eliphalet  Cardomay,  who  lay  on 
his  back  and  snored,  with  his  head  on  a  rolled-up  stage  cloth 
and  his  mouth  wide  open. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  ELIPHALET   TOUCH 

T^LIPHALET  CARDOMAY  was  not,  in  the  true  sense 
*\  of  the  word,  a  Bohemian.  In  his  own  particular  way 
he  was  rather  conventional.  He  knew  he  had  not  been 
drunk  by  any  intentional  intemperance  of  his  own,  yet  the 
memory  of  the  affair  at  Brigan  was  a  nightmare  to  which 
even  Manning  was  not  permitted  to  refer. 

To  a  man  who  has  formed  for  himself  certain  high  stand- 
ards of  behaviour,  even  the  inadvertent  collapse  of  any  one 
of  these  is  a  matter  of  acute  distress.  Eliphalet  Cardomay 
hated  insobriety.  The  word  conjured  up  in  his  mind  a 
vision  of  a  last  scene  in  his  married  life.  He  regarded 
drunkenness  as  the  thief  of  virtue,  and  with  Eliphalet 
virtue  was  of  supreme  account.  So  far  as  lay  within  his 
power  he  suppressed  any  tendency  in  his  company  toward 
what  is  inaccurately  termed  by  laymen,  "theatrical  ar- 
rangements." 

To  prevent  some  little  wanderer  from  committing  a  false 
and  foolish  step  he  would  take  any  amount  of  trouble.  Eli- 
phalet Cardomay  was,  despite  the  failure  of  his  own  mar- 
riage, a  romanticist.  He  would  gladly  walk  ten  miles  to 
a  wedding,  and  an  equal  distance  on  his  hands  to  a  chris- 
tening. 

There  is  a  sentimental  kink  in  most  childless  old  men. 
A  wise  and  loving  parent  Eliphalet  Cardomay  would  have 

64 


THE    ELIPHALET  TOUCH          65 

made,  had  the  fates  not  willed  it  otherwise,  for  he  was  the 
very  type  of  sentimentalist  who  gladly  would  have  given 
his  every  possession  to  have  his  dress-tie — on  the  rare  oc- 
casions he  wore  one — tied  by  dainty  daughter-fingers.  But 
no  daughter  bore  the  name  of  Cardomay — he  was  alone  and 
self-contained,  and  watched  all  around  him  a  world  of 
apathetic  parents  seemingly  insensible  to  the  happiness  that 
was  theirs.  And  so,  in  his  little  way,  Eliphalet  fathered 
his  flock,  guided  and  ferried  them  over  rough  waters,  gave 
them  gentle,  easy  advices,  and,  without  saying  much  about 
it,  contrived  to  do  a  deal  of  good. 

Some  girls  are  always  old  enough  to  be  on  their  own — 
others  are  never  old  enough  to  be  on  their  own,  even  when 
middle-age  has  made  their  girlhood  a  sham. 

Of  the  latter  order  was  Miss  Eunice  Terry,  whose  real 
name  was  Mary  Kent.  She  became  Eunice  Terry  on  her 
accession  to  the  stage  because  she  foolishly  believed  such 
verbal  extravagances  would  facilitate  her  ascent  of  the 
ladder  of  Fame.  The  foolishness  of  Eunice  did  not  stop 
with  her  choice  of  a  name,  for  the  stage  had  scarcely 
claimed  her  as  its  own  before  she  adopted  the  practice  of 
calling  everyone  "My  dear,"  of  colouring  her  naturally 
pretty  face  with  unnatural  pigments,  and  of  wearing  clothes, 
and  particularly  boots,  of  a  type  which  no  man  admires,  ex- 
cept on  evenings  of  frivolity  removed  from  the  home  circle. 

Had  Eunice  Terry  been  a  wise  little  girl  she  would  have 
remained  Mary  Kent  even  though  on  the  stage.  For  Mary 
Kent  was  quite  an  attractive  person,  and  far  more  likely 
to  figure  in  the  cast  of  a  play  than  any  amount  of  Eunice 
Terrys.  But  she  was  not  a  wise  little  girl,  she  was  a  very 
foolish  one,  and  her  folly  was  the  cause  of  a  growing  grief 


66  THE   OLD    CARD 

in  the  heart  of  Henry  Churchill,  who  had  loved  her  with 
joy  as  Mary,  and  continued  to  do  so  with  melancholy  as 
Eunice. 

Henry  Churchill  was  a  big,  conventional  young  man, 
with  a  disproportionately  small  salary  derived  from  an  es- 
tate agent.  He  had  first  met  Mary  when  the  latter  was 
employed  by  the  same  firm  as  typist,  and  had  succumbed 
at  once  to  her  fascinations. 

They  spent  four  delightful  months  getting  engaged,  and, 
after  working  hours,  would  sit  on  the  pebbles  of  Bognor 
beach  and  make  delicious  plans  for  the  future.  There  was 
only  one  cloud  to  dim  the  skies  of  these  pleasant  discourses, 
and  that  was  Mary's  constantly  expressed  ambition  to  go 
on  the  stage. 

"I  should  have  gone  ages  ago,"  she  would  say,  "if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Auntie,  and  you  know  what  she  is." 

And  Henry  secretly  thanked  Heaven  for  Auntie,  for, 
knowing  nothing  whatever  about  the  stage  or  stage-folk, 
he  very  properly  disapproved  of  both. 

Auntie,  it  appears,  was  the  stumbling-block  to  many  joy- 
ous enterprises.  It  was  she  who  insisted  that  he  must  earn 
fully  two  hundred  a  year  before  she  would  consent  to  the 
match. 

"Mary  wants  any  amount  of  looking  after,"  she  said, 
"and  you're  not  old  enough  yet  to  look  after  yourself." 

A  premature  marriage  was  thus  averted,  and  the  young 
lovers  consoled  themselves  by  privately  condemning  Auntie's 
tyranny  and  common-sense. 

Then  one  day  Auntie  died,  unexpectedly  and  inconspicu- 
ously on  the  horsehair  sofa  in  the  parlour,  and  Mary  Kent 
was  left  alone  in  the  world  to  work  out  her  own  destiny. 

It  might  be  imagined  that  Henry  embraced  the  oppor- 


THE    ELIPHALET  TOUCH         67 

tunity  to  make  her  his  wife  then  and  there,  but  Auntie  had 
left,  by  way  of  a  legacy,  a  certain  amount  of  the  one-time 
detested  common-sense.  Reviewing  his  financial  position 
by  the  clear  light  of  before-breakfast  sushine,  he  was  forced 
to  admit  that  a  salary  that  barely  sufficed  to  satisfy  his 
own  needs  would  inevitably  prove  insufficient  for  two.  He 
conveyed  this  weighty  decision  to  the  ears  of  his  adored 
one,  who,  deprived  of  the  same  clarity  of  vision  that  had 
been  given  to  him,  accepted  it  as  a  token  of  waning  affec- 
tion. 

"If  you  can't  keep  me,"  she  sobbed,  "then  I'll  keep  both 
of  us." 

Sorely  perplexed,  he  asked  her  what  she  meant. 

"I  shall  go  on  the  stage  and  earn  a  huge  salary,  and 
then  perhaps  you'll  be  sorry." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Mary,"  he  begged. 

"I  always  meant  to  go  when  Auntie  died,  as  it  makes  no 
difference,  anyhow,  and  now  I  shall." 

These  remarks  being  somewhat  involved,  Henry  Church- 
ill scarcely  knew  how  to  answer,  so  he  said  the  worst  thing 
possible. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  go  on  the  stage  without  know- 
ing anything  about  acting." 

"I  do  know  something  about  it,  and  when  you  see  me 
driving  about  in  my  carriage  I  sha'n't  take  any  notice  of 
you,  and  that'll  pay  you  out!" 

Henry  pondered  for  a  moment  before  replying: 

"Surely  you  have  more  respect  for  your  poor  aunt's 
memory  than  to  go  talking  about  carriages,  like  that?" 

But  Mary  only  pouted,  and  never  said  another  word 
during  the  whole  walk  home. 

Next  morning  Miss  Mary  Kent's  place  at  the  estate 


68  THE   OLD    CARD 

agent's  was  unoccupied,  and  when  Henry,  after  an  agonising 
three  hours,  rushed  round  to  her  abode,  he  found  a  letter 
awaiting  him,  the  gist  of  which  was  she  had  gone  to  make 
her  fortune  on  the  stage,  and  though  she  would  always  love 
him  she  must  give  rein  to  her  artistic  abilities  before  the 
consummation  of  their  happiness  could  be  achieved. 

Beginner's  luck  is  no  fable,  and  it  was  certainly  ex- 
ampled  when  Mary  Kent  presented  herself  at  the  stage-door 
of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Brighton,  at  the  psycholgical  moment 
Eliphalet  Cardomay  decided  that  another  lady-guest  was 
required  for  the  reception-scene  at  the  Ambassador's. 

The  Brighton  Herald  had  commented  upon  the  quality 
and  lack  of  guests  in  this  important  function,  and  Elipha- 
let, viewing  the  scene  from  the  wings,  was  bound  to  con- 
fess there  was  justice  in  their  observations. 

It  is  not  pleasant  for  an  actor  of  his  standing  to  read  in 
the  "What  People  are  Saying"  column  that  "The  Ambas- 
sador at  the  Royal  this  week  hasn't  many  friends,  and 
what  he  has  hardly  seem  worth  knowing." 

As  a  general  rule,  guests  can  be  made  to  double  in  other 
acts  with  peasants,  gardeners,  or  policemen,  but  in  this 
particular  play  there  were  no  peasants,  policemen,  or  gar- 
deners; hence,  to  invite  more  than  a  select  few  to  the  Am- 
bassadorial rout  was  a  distinct  extravagance.  Neverthe- 
less, it  would  not  do  if  people  got  hold  of  the  idea  that  he 
was  cheese-paring.  Accordingly,  at  the  end  of  the  matinee, 
he  called  the  stage-manager,  and  addressed  him  as  follows: 

"Mr.  Manning,  you  will  endeavour  to  find  a  girl  and  a 
young  gentleman  to  walk  on  in  the  third  act;  the  stage  is 
not  sufficiently  dressed." 

"Right  you  are,  Guv'nor,"  said  the  stage-manager.  "There 
was  a  girl  asking  for  a  job  at  the  stage-door  five  minutes 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH         69 

ago.  Nip  down  the  road,  Sydney,  and  try  and  catch  the 
young  lady." 

Sydney,  the  call-boy,  departed  with  speed,  and  came  up 
with  Mary  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 

"The  Guv'nor  wants  to  have  a  look  at  you,  miss,"  he 
said.  "Might  be  a  shop  going." 

With  fluttering  heart  Mary  retraced  her  footsteps,  and 
was  led  by  Sydney  to  that  most  hideous  of  structures,  the 
back  of  the  stage. 

But  it  was  all  wonderful  to  Mary,  especially  when  she 
found  herself  within  a  few  paces  of  the  great  Mr.  Cardo- 
may,  irreproachably  attired  in  evening-dress,  with  a  velvet 
collar,  and  wearing  many  mystic  orders  on  his  white  shirt 
front. 

Mr.  Manning  detached  himself  from  his  employer,  who 
melted  into  the  wings,  and,  twisting  the  card  she  had  left 
at  the  stage-door  between  forefinger  and  thumb,  approached 
her. 

To  the  tyro  Mr.  Manning  was  rather  terrifying.  His 
bowler  hat,  which  he  always  wore  either  on  the  extreme  back 
or  the  extreme  front  of  his  head,  seemed  menacing,  as  also 
did  the  extinguished  cigarette  which  stuck  to  his  lower  lip 
and  engaged  upon  the  strangest  evolutions  as  he  spoke. 

"Y-e-es,"  he  said,  looking  her  up  and  down.  "Urn!  Of 
course  I  know  what  you  can  do.  What  have  you  done?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mary,  startled  into  speaking  the  truth. 

Mr.  Manning  sucked  his  teeth  and  shook  his  head.  At 
this  juncture  Eliphalet  Cardomay  appeared  from  behind 
the  scenery,  and  said: 

"All  right,  Manning,  make  the  engagement.  She  will 
enter  after  the  French  Consul  and  his  wife — cross  down 
right  and  sit  in  chair  below  settee  until  music  cue,  then  off; 


70  THE   OLD   CARD 

on  again  at  finale  by  door  right.  Walk  it  through  and  see 
the  wardrobe-mistress.  Tell  Boscombe  to  make  a  duration 
of  tour  contract."  And  without  another  word  he  vanished 
into  the  shadows. 

"Am  I  really  engaged?"  panted  Mary.  "Is  it  a  good 
part?" 

"No  worse  than  other  walk-on,"  replied  Manning.  "Come 
on  through  this  door;  you'll  have  to  go  on  to-night,  and  I 
want  some  tea." 

It  is  questionable  whether  the  inclusion  of  Miss  Eunice 
Terry  at  the  Ambassador's  reception  greatly  improved  the 
scene.  For  certainly  never  was  guest  more  awkward. 

With  jealous  amazement  she  viewed  the  natural  ease  of 
the  other  young  ladies  in  the  crowd,  and  envied  them  their 
mellifluous  laughter.  Earlier  in  the  evening  she  had  listened 
with  awe  to  the  conversation  in  the  dressing-room,  and  had 
marked  how  each,  according  to  her  own  tale,  was  usually 
to  be  seen  in  highly  important  roles,  but  being  sick  of  "rest- 
ing" had  accepted  a  "walk-on"  as  a  "fill-in."  From  the 
way  the  Christian  names  of  stage  celebrities  flew  about 
Mary  judged  them  to  be  well  in  with  the  elite  of  the  profes- 
sion. After  a  few  days  she  learnt  that  it  was  not  essential 
to  be  personally  acquainted  with  such  persons  as  Julia  Neil- 
son  or  Marie  Lohr,  before  speaking  of  them  as  "Julia"  or 
"Marie." 

These  familiarities  intrigued  her  greatly,  and  before  the 
week  was  out  she  was  able  to  refer  to  H.  B.  Irving  as  "Har- 
ry" or  Dion  Boucicault  as  "Dot"  without  the  slightest  em- 
barrassment. Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  the  only  person 
never  spoken  of  by  an  abbreviation.  He  was  and  remained 
"The  Guv'nor." 

Mr.  Manning,  the  stage-manager,  automatically  became 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH         71 

"Freddie,"  not  to  be  confounded  with  Fred,  which,  as  every- 
one knows,  was  reserved  for  Fred  Terry. 

"Freddie"  was  the  subject  of  much  conversation,  indeed 
about  forty  per  cent,  of  the  entire  output  either  started 
with  "Freddie  is  a  brick,  you  know,"  or  "Freddie  is  a  per- 
fect beast." 

Another  twenty  per  cent,  was  given  over  to  the  doings 
of  the  call-boy,  "that  little  devil,  Sydney,"  and  the  remain- 
ing to  reminiscences  of  past  successes,  or  such  remarks  as: 

"I  feel  a  perfect  rag  to-day." 

"Have  you  seen  the  show  at  So-and-so?" 

"My  dear,  he  was  perfectly  awful!" 

"There  was  nothing  but  paper  in  the  house." 

"But  I  always  do  love  Marian;  she  makes  me  cry,  of 
course." 

"She's  such  a  dear  off  the  stage."  And  so  forth  and  so 
on. 

Harmless  stuff  for  the  most  part — not,  as  a  rule,  scan- 
dalous— always  and  without  exception  vapid  and  silly. 

They  are  dear,  kind-hearted,  empty-headed  little  ladies 
who  sail  their  boats  round  the  fringes  of  the  lake  of  dra- 
matic art.  They  belong  to  a  genus  of  its  own.  They  never 
play  parts — in  the  main  they  couldn't  if  they  tried — in 
the  main  they  don't  want  to.  They  are  content  to  talk 
big,  to  walk  on  and  on  in  one  "show"  after  another,  until 
at  last  they  have  walked  away  their  good  looks  and  disap- 
pear to  an  even  greater  obscurity  than  that  of  the  peasant 
or  the  guest. 

But  Eunice  Terry  was  not  in  all  respects  the  counterpart 
of  these  other  girls.  At  least  she  was  ambitious.  She  de- 
sired success,  fame — that  is  to  say,  she  desired  the  advan- 
tages these  conditions  carried  with  them.  It  did  not  occur 


72  THE   OLD   CARD 

to  her  that  to  be  successful  and  beloved  of  the  public  one 
must  give  the  public  something  by  way  of  return.  She  was 
out  for  her  chance  without  even  considering  whether  or  no 
she  would  be  able  to  make  good  if  she  got  it.  So,  instead 
of  thinking  about  her  profession,  she  devoted  herself  en- 
tirely to  acquiring  silly  habits  of  speech  and  little  vulgarities 
of  attire  which  robbed  her  of  all  her  good  taste  and  most  of 
her  good  looks. 

On  the  day  Eliphalet  Cardomay  engaged  her  he  made  the 
following  note  in  a  little  book  kept  for  that  purpose.  "18th 
January.  Engaged  Eunice  Terry.  A  guinea  for  eight  per- 
formances and  one-fourteenth  for  any  addition.  Looks 
about  twenty  years  of  age,  pretty,  slightly  wistful;  evidently 
inexperienced.  Might  be  suitable  for  very  sympathetic 
parts.  Note:  the  name  Eunice  Terry  seems  strangely  out 
of  keeping— Dorothy  or  Mary  would  be  more  appropriate." 
Having  made  this  entry  he  forgot  all  about  her  until  one 
day  when  he  decided  to  revive  "East  Lynne,"  and  then, 
in  looking  through  his  first-impression  book  for  a  suitable 
"Joyce,"  the  faithful  nurse,  he  came  across  the  paragraph. 
and  at  once  dispatched  the  call-boy  for  Mr.  Manning. 

"Manning,"  he  said,  "I've  been  thinking  of  Miss  Terry 
for  the  part  of  Joyce.  Is  she  still  with  us?" 

"Yes,  Guv'nor.    Of  course,  we've  never  tried  her  out." 

Eliphalet  nodded. 

"That  should  hardly  matter.  I  have  a  note  here  that 
she  is  simple  and  sympathetic.  With  these  attributes  the 
part  will  play  itself.  Will  you  send  her  to  me?" 

There  was  a  tremendous  flutter  in  the  dressing-room  when 
Mr.  Manning  popped  in  his  head  and  said: 

"Guv'nor  wants  to  see  you,  Miss  Terry.    Look  slippy  1" 


THE    ELIPHALET  TOUCH         73 

Eunice,  dressed  for  the  street,  felt  her  hour  of  triumph 
was  at  hand. 

"If  I'd  only  known  in  the  morning,"  she  gasped,  "I'd  have 
put  on  my  fawn  coat  and  skirt.  This  old  thing's  a  rag. 
Does  this  white  fox  look  dirty,  dear?" 

"No;  you  look  sweet,  dear." 

Followed  some  frenzied  powdering — some  dexterous 
touches  with  a  be-rouged  hare's-foot — the  borrowing  of  a 
pair  of  white  gloves  from  one  girl,  "that  lovely  parasol"  from 
another,  and  a  hurried  departure  to  meet  her  fate. 

At  the  door  of  Mr.  Cardomay's  room  she  halted.  It 
would  not  do  to  appear  flurried.  She  must  be  calm  and 
remember  all  the  wonderful  things  she  had  learnt  during 
the  last  six  weeks.  She  must  stand  her  ground  as  an  artiste, 
and  it  was  comforting  to  reflect  upon  the  irreproachable 
plinth  provided  by  her  patent-leather  boots,  with  the  up- 
pers that  soared  upwards  to  the  height  of  her  knee.  She 
knocked,  and  heard  the  answering  "Come  in." 

Mr.  Cardomay  was  engaged  in  writing  in  an  autograph 
book  as  she  entered,  and  he  laid  it  aside  and  turned  his 
eyes  towards  her.  What  he  saw  seemed  to  surprise  him,  for 
he  contracted  his  brows  a  little.  He  had  expected  to  find 
the  same  little  rosy-cheeked  runaway  from  Bognor,  but,  in- 
stead, here  was  a  young  lady  all  over  white  fur,  white  boots, 
white  powder,  long  gloves  and  short  skirts. 

"There's  some  mistake,  I  think,"  he  said.  "I  asked  for 
Miss  Terry." 

"I'm  Eunice  Terry." 

"Tch-tch!  dear  me,  you  will  think  it  very  strange  that 
I  hardly  know  the  young  ladies  in  my  own  company." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  she  replied.  "One  knocks  up  against 
so  many  people  on  the  road,  doesn't  one?" 


74  THE   OLD   CARD 

He  nodded  gravely.  Evidently  the  young  lady  was 
no  use  for  the  part,  but,  being  kind-hearted,  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  get  rid  of  her. 

"I  sent  for  you,"  he  said  untruthfully,  "to  ask  if  you  were 
any  relation  of  the  Terrys." 

Eunice's  high  hopes  came  down  with  a  bump. 

"Not  really  a  relation,"  she  answered.  "Of  course,  we 
know  Fred  very  well." 

"Urn!"  said  Eliphalet.  "Well,  I  trust  you're  happy  in 
the  company.  Good  afternoon." 

Eunice  turned  to  go,  then,  with  sudden  courage  stayed 
and  said:  "I  was  hoping,  Mr.  Cardomay,  you  had  got 
something  for  me  in  the  next  show.  I'm  simply  dying  to 
play  a  part — a  big  part." 

The  unsatisfied  fatherly  instinct  in  Eliphalet  Cardo- 
may came  to  the  surface,  and  pointing  to  a  chair,  he  said: 

"Sit  down  a  minute.    How  old  are  you?" 

"I'm  twenty." 

"Have  you  a  father  or  a  mother?" 

"No.  I  used  to  live  with  an  old  aunt.  She  was  a  fright- 
ful ogre,  Mr.  Cardomay.  Wouldn't  let  me  go  on  the  stage. 
So  silly." 

"She  is  dead?" 

"Yes." 

"What  a  pity.  And  you  are  not  engaged?" 

"Well,  only  in  a  way.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  marry 
him;  not,  at  any  rate,  until  I'm  famous.  You  see,  he's 
foolish  about  the  stage,  too.  Seemed  to  think  it  would  spoil 
me." 

Eliphalet's  eyes  wandered  to  the  white  boots  elaborately 
displayed  for  his  benefit. 

"Poor  young  man,"  was  his  comment. 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH          75 

"He's  a  great  dear,  of  course,  and  I  like  him  very  much, 
but  I  couldn't  let  him  stand  in  the  way  of  my  career,  could 
I?" 

"He  won't." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  agree  with  me." 

"Real  love  does  not  stand  in  the  way  of  an  artistic 
career,  it  advances  it." 

"I'm  madly  keen  to  get  on." 

"What  do  you  call  getting  on?" 

"I  mean  to  have  one's  name  and  photograph  in  all  the 
papers,  to  keep  a  motor,  and  be  recognised — all  that  sort 
of  thing." 

Eliphalet  smiled  ironically.  "At  least  it  was  an  honest 
answer,"  he  said.  "The  last  girl  to  whom  I  put  the  same 
question  replied:  To  play  Lady  Macbeth  better  than  any- 
one else.' " 

"How  silly!"  said  Eunice. 

And  Eliphalet  rose  to  put  an  end  to  the  interview. 

"Do  you  think  you  will  have  something  for  me?"  she 
hazarded. 

"Advice  at  any  time  you  need  it,  and,  as  a  little  to  go 
on  with,  don't  lose  track  of  that  poor  young  man." 

Everyone  had  waited  in  the  dressing-room  to  hear  the 
result  of  her  interview,  and  a  salvo  of  "Well's"  and  "Did 
you  fix  anything?"  was  fired  from  the  expectant  circle. 

"I'd  rather  not  say,"  she  answered  evasively.  "He  par- 
ticularly said  I  mustn't  mention  it  to  anyone." 

These  were  brave  words,  and  brave  also  was  the  gaiety 
of  the  song  she  sang  as  she  left  the  theatre.  But  that  night, 
after  the  gas  had  been  turned  out  in  the  lodging  she  shared 
with  another  girl,  Eunice  Terry  found  herself  crying,  and 
seemed  in  no  great  likelihood  of  stopping. 


76  THE    OLD    CARD 

Flora  Wayne,  her  companion,  heard  the  sobs  in  her  sleep, 
and,  instantly  sitting  bolt  upright  and  wide  awake,  as  only 
a  woman  can,  demanded  what  was  the  matter.  Whereupon 
Mary  Kent  forgot  that  she  was  Eunice  Terry,  and  whim- 
pered with  piteous  grief,  because  she  hadn't  got  on  and 
didn't  understand  why  Mr.  Cardomay  should  have  sent 
for  her  and  given  her  nothing. 

"Why  don't  I  get  on?"  asked  the  tear-stained  one  pa- 
thetically. 

And  Flora,  like  the  fool  she  undoubtedly  was,  whispered 
various  reasons  by  which,  according  to  her  study  of  human 
beings,  it  appeared  that  to  rise  upon  the  stage  was  only 
possible  for  those  who  consented  to  fall  in  other  ways. 

"It's  the  only  way  to  get  a  start,"  said  Flora.  "Be- 
cause I  wouldn't  take  it  is  why  I  have  always  stuck  where 
I  am."  And  having  sown  the  canker  of  this  perilous  seed 
in  the  fertile  soil  of  the  silly  little  brain  beside  her,  Flora 
turned  over  and  continued  her  broken  sleep. 

But  Eunice  lay  awake  and  turned  the  matter  over  in 
her  mind.  It  was  a  disturbing  thought  that  art  and  virtue 
could  never  be  allied,  and  she  wondered  very  deeply  if  it 
were  so,  approaching  the  subject  as  fearfully  as  a  child 
with  a  strange  dog. 

She  had  been  in  Mr.  Cardomay's  company  four  months 
when  this  mental  crisis  occurred,  and  during  these  months 
Henry  Churchill,  to  bury  the  sorrow  of  her  loss,  had  plunged 
himself  so  deeply  into  work  at  the  Real  Estate  Agent's,  that 
he  had  attracted  the  favourable  attention  of  his  superiors. 
One  bright  day  he  was  sent  for  to  the  inner  office,  where  he 
found  Mr.  Robins,  senior  partner  of  the  firm  of  Robins, 
Robins  and  Crusoe,  who  informed  him  of  their  intention 
of  starting  a  new  branch  at  Lancingdon  and  placing  him 


THE    ELIPHALET  TOUCH          77 

in  charge,  as  manager,  with  a  salary  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year  and  a  commission  on  business  transacted.  This 
momentous  interview  took  place  on  the  day  before  Henry 
Churchill's  annual  holiday,  and  it  was  not  unnatural,  after 
a  night's  rest  in  which  he  set  his  mind  in  order,  he  should 
have  packed  a  bag  and  after  studying  a  theatrical  paper 
hastened  off  to  the  town  where  his  Mary  was  playing,  to 
tell  her  the  wonderful  news  and  seek  to  rescue  her  from  the 
paths  of  unrighteousness  and  sin. 

Having  arrived  and  taken  a  room  at  a  temperance  hotel, 
he  lost  no  time  in  seeking  out  the  theatre.  To  a  young  man 
of  gentle  upbringing  it  required  no  small  courage  to  turn 
down  that  narrow  alley  towards  the  stage-door — that  alley 
which  in  his  imagination  was  at  the  conclusion  of  each  eve- 
ning performance  probably  chock-a-block  with  the  gilded 
youth  of  the  city,  each  one  bearing  a  bouquet  of  exotic 
flowers  designed  to  anaesthetise  the  blossom  of  his  heart 
into  accepting  their  addresses. 

Fortunately  he  was  spared  the  indignity  of  asking  for 
her  at  the  stage-door,  for  at  the  moment  of  his  arrival 
she  herself  stepped  out.  For  a  moment  he  failed  to  recog- 
nise her — so  little  of  the  original  Mary  remained  under  the 
mask  of  pink  powder  and  the  screen  of  white  fox,  but  the 
features  of  the  little  figure  were  the  same. 

The  "Mary!"  he  exclaimed  savoured  more  of  rebuke 
than  recognition. 

"Why,  it's  Harry!"  she  cried,  with  a  genuine  pleasure 
in  her  voice. 

But  he  was  so  shocked  by  the  silly  little  changes  she  had 
made  in  herself  that  the  tone  of  welcome  was  lost  to  his 
ears,  and  it  was  only  with  difficulty  he  restrained  himself 
from  saying  many  foolish  things. 


78  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Is  there  anywhere  we  could  go  and  have  a  few  words 
together?"  he  gravely  asked. 

"Yes,  rather!     How  about  the  Mik?" 

"Mik?" 

"Mikado,"  she  replied.  "It's  much  better  than  the 
Royal,  you  know;  the  Royal's  always  so  full.  Fancy  your 
turning  up!  I'm  real  glad  to  see  you,  boy!" 

Henry  had  never  been  called  "Boy"  before,  and  it  grated 
on  his  ears  as  the  powder  offended  his  eyes. 

All  the  way  to  the  Mikado  Eunice  kept  up  a  sharp  rattle 
of  dressing-room  remarks,  about  poor  dear  Flo  who  couldn't 
act  a  bit,  but  was  such  a  dear  for  all  that;  about  Sydney 
Lennox,  who  had  played  second  leads  with  Fred,  and  was 
reported  to  have  ticked  off  Dot  before  an  entire  West  End 
company;  and  endless  other  showy  fragments  intended  to 
impress  him  with  the  manner  of  her  success,  since  the  day 
they  had  parted. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  another  reason  for  talking, 
and  that  was  to  hide  her  own  feelings,  which  had  been  sorely 
upset  by  a  short  interview  she  had  forced  on  "Freddie" 
Manning  half  an  hour  before. 

Like  all  good  stage-managers,  Manning  assiduously 
avoided  persons  who  sought  to  converse  with  him  on  busi- 
ness subjects — but  this  time  Eunice  had  caught  him  un- 
awares at  the  end  of  a  passage  that  led  to  a  blank  wall. 

"Mr.  Manning,"  she  had  said,  "do  be  a  dear  and  tell  me 
straight  out  what  my  chances  are." 

Manning  rubbed  his  small,  round  ended  nose  and  screwed 
up  his  features,  like  a  child  before  a  dose  of  physic. 

"Dare  say  there'll  be  a  walk-on  for  you  in  the  next  show," 
he  said  at  last. 

"But  I  mean  my  chances  of  a  part — a  real  part." 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH          79 

"Umph!"  remarked  the  stage-manager.  "What  do  you 
want  to  play  parts  for,  anyway?" 

"But  I  do.    Please  tell  me,  and  don't  tease." 

Mr.  Manning  could  be  very  straightforward  when  he 
wished. 

"Acting's  like  everything  else,"  he  said.  "It's  got  to  be 
learned.  No  one's  going  to  give  you  a  part  unless  you  give 
something  in  return." 

It  was  a  perfectly  innocent  speech,  but,  thanks  to  the 
vapourings  of  Flora,  Eunice  Terry  read  its  meaning  all 
wrong. 

"And  that's  the  only  way  to  get  on?"  she  asked  nervously. 

"Sure!"  responded  Freddie.  "You  don't  get  anything 
for  nothing  in  this  life."  Then  very  dexterously  he  slipped 
past  her  down  the  passage. 

Henry  listened  to  her  chatter  with  growing  displeasure, 
but  it  was  not  until  they  had  seated  themselves  at  a  table 
in  that  Japanese-fanny,  coffee-smelling  restaurant  known 
as  the  "Mik"  that  he  really  spoke  his  mind. 

"Now,  look  here,  Mary,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you 
very  straight.  Mr.  Robins  has  offered  me  the  managership 
at  the  Lancingdon  branch,  with  the  salary  of  £250  a  year." 

"Oh,  I  am  glad!"  said  Eunice  Terry,  laying  a  white- 
gloved  hand  on  his  sleeve.  "That's  fine!" 

"The  question  is  whether  you  will  throw  up  this  business 
and  marry  me." 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  answer.  Awhile  she  turned 
over  in  her  mind  the  words  of  Flora  and  Freddie  Manning. 
Here  was  this  big,  honest  young  man,  who  really  did  love 
her,  and  there  was  that  remote  phantom  of  possible  success, 
with  its  barrier  of  the  price  to  be  paid.  It  would  be  very 
nice  to  set  up  house  with  Harry  with  two-fifty  a  year,  for 


8o  THE   OLD   CARD 

after  all  the  thirty  shillings  a  week  she  earned  didn't  go 
far,  and  really  and  truly  there  was  nothing  very  sensational 
or  exciting  in  her  present  life.  When  she  lifted  her  head 
she  was  smiling  very  prettily,  and  it  was  on  her  lips  to 
say  "Yes,"  when  some  demon,  possibly  the  ghost  of  Auntie, 
inspired  Henry  Churchill  to  say: 

"Of  course,  if  you  consent,  there  must  be  an  end  to  all 
this  making-up  business." 

"Ch!"  gasped  Eunice.  "How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like 
that!" 

"It's  better  we  should  understand  each  other.  I  dare  say 
all  this  is  very  suitable  to  your  present  mode  of  life,  but  it 
wouldn't  do  in  Lancingdon." 

"You  beast!"  she  said.  "If  you  think  I'd  marry  you 
and  be  a  rotten  little  estate  agent's  wife,  you're  wrong 
You  talk  about  the  stage  like  that,  and  know  nothing  about 
it.  I'd  be  a  pretty  sort  of  fool  if  I  gave  up  the  stage  for 
you!" 

"Is  this  the  little  Mary  I  used  to  know?"  inquired  Henry 
Churchill,  employing  an  old  formula. 

"No,  it  isn't.    I've  grown  up  a  lot." 

"Grown  into  bad  ways,"  said  Henry  Churchill,  getting 
deeper  into  trouble.  "Come,  come,  Mary,  let  us  forget  this 
unhappy  chapter  of  your  life  end  begin  again  with  a  clean 
sheet." 

"I've  got  a  clean  sheet."  She  stamped  her  foot.  "How  dare 
you  talk  to  me  as  if  I  was  a  wicked  woman!" 

"I  am  trying  to  prevent  such  a  thing." 

"Funny  way  of  doing  it.  If  anything  does  happen  to 
me,  it'll  be  your  fault.  I  hope — I  hope  I  go  thoroughly  to 
the  bad — just  to  pay  you  out." 

"I  forbid  you  to  say  such  things." 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH          81 

"You  forbid!  You  have  no  control  over  me.  I  lead  my 
life  in  my  own  way — with  my  art." 

Considering  that  Henry's  main  desire  was  to  placate  her 
wrath,  his  response  of  "I  don't  see  how  you  can  call  being 
one  of  a  crowd  'Art,'  "  was  as  infelicitous  as  you  could  wish. 

Mary  rose  with  the  single  word  "Cad!"  and,  flinging 
the  white  fox  about  her  shoulders,  swept  from  the  room. 

Henry  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her,  but  sat  gazing 
into  a  highly-decorated  coffee-cup  and  chewed  the  cud  of 
tragedy.  The  love  of  his  life  was  ruined — his  beautiful 
image  destroyed  by  the  vile  pollution  of  the  stage.  A  great 
resentment  surged  through  him  that  such  destructive  ma- 
chinery should  be  allowed  to  exist  to  lure  the  righteous  to 
their  undoing. 

On  the  table  before  him  was  a  throw-away  of  the  week's 
play.  He  picked  it  up  and  held  it  at  arm's  length,  as  though 
it  were  a  tract  of  the  devil.  The  name  Eliphalet  Cardomay 
shrieked  from  the  page  in  block  type.  That  was  the  fellow 
— he  was  the  man  at  whose  door  her  ruin  must  be  laid. 
Henry  Churchill  crumpled  the  paper  fiercely,  and  as  he 
saw  the  name  twist  up  in  his  grasp  a  thought  came  to  him. 

That  evening,  at  ten  o'clock,  he  was  at  the  stage-door, 
demanding  that  his  card  should  be  conveyed  to  Mr.  Cardo- 
may. 

"Never  sees  anyone  till  after  the  show,"  said  the  door- 
keeper, and  returned  to  his  football  edition. 

It  was  well  after  eleven  before  Henry  eventually  found 
himself  in  Mr.  Cardomay's  dressing-room.  Possibly  he  ex- 
pected to  see  some  satanic  apparition,  for  certainly  he  was  a 
little  astonished  to  find  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  grey- 
haired  and  elderly  gentleman,  with  a  deeply-seamed  face, 
which  he  was  thoughtfully  wiping  with  a  towel.  Over  the 


82  THE   OLD    CARD 

edge  of  the  towel  peered  a  pair  of  shrewd  but  kindly  eyes. 

"Yes?    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"I — My  name  is  Henry  Churchill." 

"I  had  already  gathered  as  much  from  your  card." 

"I  am  here  on  a  matter  of  very  important  business." 

"You  are  seeking  an  engagement,  perhaps?"  It  was  said 
very  kindly. 

"No — far  from  it,"  replied  Henry.  "In  fact,  I  may  say 
that  I  despise  the  stage  and  everything  to  do  with  it." 

A  whimsical  smile  played  round  the  corners  of  Eliphalet's 
eyes. 

"You  appear  to  have  chosen  an  odd  place  to  make  such 
an  assertion,"  was  all  he  said. 

"Perhaps,  but  I  didn't  come  on  that  score.  You  have  a 
girl  here  named  Mary  Kent." 

"Not  here,  believe  me." 

"There's  no  use  denying  it.  She — she's  a  member  of 
your — troupe." 

Eliphalet  held  up  his  hand.  "Mr.  Churchill,"  he  said, 
"would  you  mind  going  away  and  not  returning  until  you 
have  bettered  your  vocabulary  and  learnt  a  modicum  of  good 
manners?" 

The  distinction  with  which  this  speech  was  delivered 
quite  took  the  wind  from  Henry's  sails. 

"I — I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  what  would  you  say  if 
your  affianced  were  ruined — spoiled  and  painted  up  like  a 
Jezebel?" 

"Do  you  accuse  me  of  ruining,  spoiling  and  painting  up 
a  certain  Miss  Mary  Kent?  Because  I  assure  you  I  have 
never  before  heard  the  lady's  name." 

"You  know  her  better,  perhaps,  as  Eunice  Terry?" 

"Miss  Terry?    Dear  me!    Really!    So  you  are  the  young 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH          83 

man  of  whom  she  spoke.    The  young  man  I  advised  her  not 

to  lose  sight  of." 

"   "You  advised  her?" 

"Certainly.  I  sensed  that  you  might  prove  a  valuable 
sheet-anchor  to — well,  rather  a  will-o'-the-wisp  little  craft. 
I  hope,  Mr.  Churchill,  you  have  come  to  carry  her  away  to 
the  hymeneal  altar?" 

"That's  what  I  did  come  for,  but,  thanks  to  your  teach- 
ing, it's  all  knocked  on  the  head." 

"My  teaching?" 

"Yes.  Since  you  taught  her  to  get  herself  up — talk  a 
lot  of  silly  theatrical  shop,  and  put  on  stagey  ways." 

"My  dear  young  man,  those  very  stagey  ways  you  speak 
of  are  none  of  my  teaching.  Indeed,  but  for  their  existence 
I  might  have  done  something  to  advance  the  little  lady  in 
her  profession.  It  was  their  presence  dissuaded  me  and  also 
caused  me  to  advise  her  not  to  lose  touch  with  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"There  are  many  young  and  very  foolish  girls  whom  the 
glamour  of  the  stage  attracts — who  are  in  no  way  suited,  nor 
try  to  suit  themselves,  for  success  upon  the  boards.  Oddly 
enough,  they  solace  their  souls  with  trumpery  talk  and  silly 
vanities.  They  are  good  enough  in  themselves,  but  weak, 
do  you  see?  Unable  to  grasp  the  essentials  of  a  fine  picture 
while  hypnotised  with  the  glitter  of  a  cheap  gilt  frame. 
With  a  little  care — a  little  sympathy — a  little  tact — they 
can  be  won  away  from  where  they  are  not  wanted  to  where 
they  are  wanted.  Now  I  advise  you  to  talk  to  this  little 
runaway  very  gently.  Condole  with  her  on  the  lack  of 
opportunity  she  has  had,  but  plead  your  love  as  a  finer  and 
greater  outlet  for  her  self-expression.  Do  this,  Mr.  Church- 


84  THE   OLD    CARD 

ill,  and  upon  my  word,  within  a  month  you'll  be  happily 
house-hunting,  with  her  hand  upon  your  arm." 

"It's  no  good,"  said  Henry  Churchill.  "I  have  talked  to 
her." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Told  her  I  heartily  disapproved  of  everything  she  was 
doing." 

"That  was  unwise." 

"I  believe  in  saying  what  I  think." 

"Yet  people  who  always  say  what  they  think  rarely  have 
the  privilege  of  doing  what  they  like.  You  have  made  a 
regrettable  mistake,  and  there  is  nothing  left  for  you  to  do 
but  leave  her  horizon  until  the  memory  of  it  has  vanished." 

"But  I  want  to  marry  her." 

"Precisely.    Hence  my  suggestion." 

"Look  here:  will  you  promise  not  to  re-engage  her  after 
this  piece?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"I  want  to  get  her  out  of  this  business." 

"You  would  not  achieve  your  object  that  way.  She  is 
pretty  enough  to  ensure  her  getting  another  engagement, 
and  while  she  is  with  me  she  is  unlikely  to  come  to  any 
harm.  No;  I  shall  engage  her  and  re-engage  her  for  one 
crowd  after  another,  in  the  hope  that  she  will  surfeit  of 
walking  on,  and  that  it  will  soak  into  her  little  head  that  she 
is  not  destined  for  a  great  career.  And  now,  good  night,  Mr. 
Churchill — some  matters  of  business " 

But  Henry  did  not  move  at  once. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,"  he  said,  "you  are  going  about  this 
business  in  the  best  way." 

Eliphalet  smiled.    "Of  course  you  are  not.     But  then 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH         85 

you  are  not  a  student  of  human  nature,  and  by  profession 
I  am.  Good  night,  again." 

But  Henry  Churchill  disregarded  Mr.  Cardomay's  advice, 
and  wrote  a  letter  to  Mary  urging  her  to  abandon  a  pro- 
fession in  which  she  was  doomed  to  failure,  and  accept  his 
hand  in  marriage.  This  foolishly-constructed  affair  fired 
her  determination  to  show  him,  at  all  costs,  that  she  could 
succeed,  and  moreover  to  say  that  she  never  wished  to  see 
or  hear  from  him  again.  Both  letters,  in  a  fit  of  emotional 
confidence,  she  showed  to  Flora,  who,  being  a  meddlesome 
little  busybody,  decided  that  it  was  merely  a  lovers'  quar- 
rel, and  determined  to  act  as  intermediary  and  secretly  keep 
the  unhappy  young  man  informed  as  to  his  sweetheart's 
doings. 

Now  it  was  just  at  this  critical  time  that  Sydney  Len- 
nox (he  who  was  reputed  to  have  ticked  off  Dot  Boucicault 
before  a  West  End  company)  chanced  to  cast  a  favouring 
eye  upon  the  cherry-lipped  Eunice.  Sydney  Lennox  was 
attracting  a  good  deal  of  attention  in  the  company,  for  it 
was  common  knowledge  that  in  a  few  weeks'  time  he  was 
taking  out  a  tour  of  his  own.  The  younger  members  would 
haunt  his  exits  in  the  hope  of  a  chance  word  with  him,  and 
many  there  were  who  besought  him  to  give  them  work. 
Then  one  night,  during  one  of  his  waits,  Eunice  boldly 
bearded  the  lion  and  asked  if  he  couldn't  find  her  a  part 
to  play. 

Mr.  Lennox  blew  a  cloud  of  cigarette-smoke  towards  the 
ceiling  and  watched  it  disappear. 

"Can  you  act,  then?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  I'm  certain  I  could  if  I  had  the  chance." 

"And  you  want  me  to  back  the  chance  you  can,  eh?" 


86  THE   OLD   CARD 

It  was  not  a  pretty  speech,  but  Mr.  Lennox  was  like  that. 
"Nothing  doing,  my  dear,"  he  finished  up. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Eunice,  and  turned  sadly  away. 

Something  in  the  cut  of  her  retreating  little  figure  made 
an  appeal  to  Sydney  Lennox,  for  he  called  out: 

"Here!     Come  back  a  minute." 

She  turned  expectantly,  and  he  allowed  his  eyes  to  wan- 
der over  her.  Certainly  she  was  pretty,  very  pretty.  Quite 
an  asset  on  a  summer  tour. 

"Got  any  people?" 

"No;   I'm  an  orphan." 

"On  your  own,  then?" 

"Yes;  and  I'm  awfully  keen  to  get  on." 

Mr.  Lennox  rubbed  his  chin. 

"Find  things  pretty  dull,  don't  you?" 

"I'm  bored  to  tears  with  being  in  the  crowd.  I'd  give 
anything  to  get  out  of  it  and  play  a  part." 

"You  would?  I  see — I  see.  Right!  Well,  come  and  talk 
to  me  again."  He  touched  her  shoulder  with  a  light,  fa- 
miliar touch,  and  walked  towards  his  entrance. 

A  week  later  Flora  noticed  a  great  excitement  in  her  com- 
panion's manner. 

"What's  the  matter,  Euny?"  she  asked. 

"I — I'm  to  play  second  lead  in  Mr.  Lennox's  tour." 

"Euny!" 

"Yes.    Isn't  it  splendid?" 

But  Flora  made  no  answer  for  a  moment;  then  she  said 
very  slowly,  "Is  it  splendid?" 

"Of  course.     Why  not?" 

"I'd  like  to  know  the  terms  that  got  you  that  shop." 

Then  Eunice  burst  out  with: 


THE    ELIPHALET  TOUCH          87 

"You  told  me  yourself  it  was  the  only  way  to  get  a  start. 
I  shouldn't  be  the  first,  and " 

But  Flora  interrupted. 

"Don't  you  touch  it,  Euny,"  she  said.  "Don't  be  a  fool. 
You'd  never  forgive  yourself,  and  it  isn't  as  if  you're  likely 
to  get  on." 

Ah!  that  unhappy  string!  Why  must  all  her  advisers 
harp  upon  it? 

"Isn't  it?  Well,  I  will  get  on,  you'll  see.  I'm  not  going 
to  be  an  old  stick-in-the-mud  all  my  life — like — like  some 
people." 

That  night  Flora  wrote  to  Harry  for  the  last  time,  and 
told  him  the  state  of  affairs. 

On  receipt  of  the  letter  Henry  Churchill  went  quite  mad. 
Seizing  his  hat  and  an  umbrella,  he  rushed  to  the  station 
and  steamed  Mary-wards  by  the  first  train.  Had  he  pos- 
sessed such  a  thing,  he  would  probably  have  taken  a  revolver 
rather  than  an  umbrella,  for  his  intentions  were  certainly 
lethal. 

The  great  length  of  the  railway  journey  had  the  effect  of 
partially  flattening  his  effervescence,  and  surely  the  hand 
of  Providence  was  evident  in  the  fact  that  the  first  person 
he  met  on  arriving  at  his  destination  was  Eliphalet  Car- 
domay.  The  sight  of  the  old  actor  peaceably  pursuing  his 
way  brought  about  a  fresh  paroxysm  of  anger. 

Had  not  Eliphalet  been  a  man  of  ready  perceptions,  it 
is  probable  that  he  would  have  made  neither  head  nor  tail 
of  the  torrent  of  reproaches  and  threats  that  fell  from 
Henry's  lips;  but  through  it  all  he  was  able  to  discern  that 
here  was  real  tragedy,  and  that  the  need  for  action  was  im- 
mediate. With  great  presence  of  mind  he  piloted  the  dis- 
traught young  man  into  an  adjacent  dairy  and,  placing  be- 


88  THE   OLD   CARD 

fore  him  a  bun  and  a  glass  of  milk,  besought  him  to  drink 
and  assuage  his  heat.  And  since  no  one  can  be  really  violent 
in  the  butter-smelling  coolth  of  a  dairy,  he  managed  to 
extract  the  story  and  at  the  same  time  bring  the  narrator 
to  a  more  rational  mood. 

"If  you  will  leave  it  to  me,"  he  said,  "I  promise  you  on 
my  word  of  honour  I  will  put  this  matter  right.  I  only  ask 
you  to  go  away  and  wait  until  I  send  for  you.  Do  this,  and 
all  will  be  well."  Thereafter  he  piloted  Henry  back  to  the 
station  and  waited  until  the  south-bound  train  bore  him  out 
of  view.  Then  his  brows  came  together  and  the  lines  of  his 
mouth  hardened. 

That  night  he  sent  for  Lennox,  and  after  a  few  small 
formalities,  including  the  offer  of  a  chair  and  a  cigarette, 
he  said: 

"I  hear  you  are  thinking  of  Miss  Terry  for  the  second  lead 
in  your  new  production." 

"I  had  thought  of  her,"  conceded  Lennox. 

Eliphalet  placed  his  finger-tips  together. 

"Is  that  quite  wise?"  he  asked.  "She  is  young  and  very 
inexperienced." 

"Quite  so;  but  one  can  but  try  her." 

"I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  try  her.  There  are  many 
others  far  more  suitable." 

"Very  likely,  but  I've  promised  this  girl.  Of  course,  if 
the  audiences  don't  like  her,  it  will  be  easy  enough  to  take 
her  out  of  the  bill." 

"Will  it?  Will  it?"  There  was  an  insistent  note  in  Eli- 
phalet's  voice. 

"Why  not?" 

"Would  your  obligation  towards  the  young  lady  be  fairly 
discharged  if  you  did?" 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH          89 

"What  obligation?" 

"To  be  frank,  Mr.  Lennox,  I  understand  you  have  made 
certain  proposals — er — conditions  to  her — which  I  regret 
should  have  come  from  a  member  of  my  company." 

Sydney  Lennox  rose  rather  stiffly. 

"I  don't  admit  your  right  to  interfere  in  my  private  af- 
fairs, Mr.  Cardomay.  What  I  may  choose  to  do  or  not  to 
do  is  no  possible  concern  of  yours." 

"No?"  came  the  mild  rejoinder.  "But  it  happens  that  I 
take  a  personal  interest  in  this  young  lady." 

"Indeed?"  said  Lennox,  then  added  unforgiveably,  "First 
come,  first  served." 

One  assumes  that  Sydney  Lennox  had  played  in  his  time 
many  villains,  for  he  deported  himself  throughout  the  of- 
fensive inspired  by  his  previous  remark,  with  a  cynical  calm 
little  short  of  remarkable.  Briefly  and  very  much  to  the 
point  Eliphalet  Cardomay  spoke  his  mind,  and  what  he  said 
could  hardly  have  been  pleasant  hearing. 

At  the  conclusion,  Lennox  bowed  and  walked  towards  the 
door.  Here  he  turned  with: 

"What  a  pity  so  much  eloquence  should  have  been  wasted. 
Doubtless  your  next  move  will  be  to  warn  the  little  Eu- 
nice against  my  machinations,  but  let  me  assure  you  that  her 
ambition  to  get  on  will  certainly  outweigh  your  most  moral 
representations." 

"That  being  so,"  replied  Eliphalet,  "I  must  think  of 
other  means." 

"There  are  no  other  means."  And  with  this  Parthian 
arrow  Lennox  withdrew. 

It  was  a  challenge,  and  Eliphalet  Cardomay  bit  his  nails 
over  it  until  he  was  "called." 

While  in  his  bath  that  night,  after  a  period  of  much 


90  THE    OLD    CARD 

brain-racking,  the  "other  means"  suddenly  illumined  his 
brain,  causing  him  to  rise  so  abruptly  that  nearly  a  gallon 
of  water  splashed  on  the  oilcloth,  percolated  through  the 
ceiling  of  the  parlour  below  and  figured  to  the  extent  of 
fifteen  and  six-pence  on  his  week's  account. 

The  next  morning  he  said  to  Manning: 

"I  am  going  to  give  a  special  matinee  at  Birmingham  the 
week  after  next.    Second  Act  of  'The  Corsican  Brothers'— 
Trial  Scene  from  'The  Merchant  of  Venice'  and — and — well, 
I  shall  think  of  something." 

Freddie  Manning  politely  asked  what  the  idea  was. 

"I  wish  to — er — to  try  out  some  of  our  younger  members." 

At  the  stage-door  he  encountered  Miss  Terry,  and  beck- 
oned her  into  his  dressing-room. 

"They  tell  me  you  are  to  play  a  part  in  Lennox's  tour. 
Hum?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eunice,  with  a  slight  increase  of  colour. 

"It  is,  in  a  sense,  unfortunate,  since  I  myself  had  pos- 
sibilities for  you." 

Eunice  almost  seized  his  arm. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Cardomay,"  she  exclaimed,  "do  you  really  mean 
that?  Oh,  I  wish  you  would!" 

"Some  other  time,  then,  perhaps." 

"No,  now.     I'd  much  rather  now." 

"But  your  contract  with  Mr.  Lennox?" 

"I  haven't  signed  one.    Please " 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  a  mistake,  since  what  I  have  to 
offer  is  only  a  single  performance.  Naturally,  if  your  suc- 
cess merited  it,  I  should  look  after  your  future." 

In  her  excitement  Eunice  rose  and  paced  up  and  down. 

"Please,  please  let  me  do  it.    I  don't  really  want  to  take 


THE    ELIPHALET  TOUCH          91 

the  other  engagement — not  a  bit,  I  don't.     What  was  it 
you  thought  of  me  for?" 

"A  special  matinee  in  three  weeks'  time.  Selections  from 
my  favourite  plays.  I  should  want  you  for  the  Trial  Scene 
in  'The  Merchant  of  Venice.'  For — for  Portia,  in  fact." 

"Portia!"  repeated  Eunice.    "Is  it  a  good  part?" 

"It  has  made  many  reputations,"  he  gravely  answered, 
without  a  shade  of  a  smile. 

"I'll  accept.  I'll  tell  Mr.  Lennox  at  once.  Oh,  thank  you 
ever  so  much." 

"There,  there,"  said  Eliphalet,  patting  her  shoulder  with 
a  kindly  hand.  "Don't  be  too  grateful.  One  never  knows!" 

Sydney  Lennox  played  a  losing  hand  rather  creditably. 
He  even  refrained  from  expressing  his  views  on  the  reason 
for  Eliphalet's  action.  Possibly  he  thought  that  to  do  so 
would  have  reflected  but  little  glamour  on  his  own  person- 
ality. 

At  the  rehearsals  everybody  remarked  to  everybody  else 
on  the  extraordinary  lack  of  guidance  Eliphalet  gave  to  the 
youthful  Portia. 

"She's  simply  awful,  my  dear,"  said  her  dressing-room 
companion,  "but  he  doesn't  seem  to  mind." 

A  day  or  two  before  the  matinee  Eliphalet  sent  a  letter 
to  Henry  Churchill,  saying  he  had  to  give  Miss  Terry  a 
"chance."  "Doubtless,"  he  wrote,  "you  will  think  I  am 
behaving  unfairly  towards  you  by  so  doing,  but  I  am  con- 
vinced that  it  is  the  wisest  course.  I  want  you  to  be  pres- 
ent and  to  come  round  after  the  performance  (not  before) 
and  pay  your  respects  to  the  little  debutante." 

To  be  sure  of  a  good  attendance  an  early-closing  day  was 
chosen,  and  a  general  invitation  issued  to  the  Hepplewhite 
Steel  Works  Shakespeare  Society. 


92  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Don't  know  what  they'll  think  of  our  Portia,  Guv'nor," 
said  Manning. 

"But  we  shall  know,  whatever  they  think,"  replied  Eli- 
phalet  sweetly. 

He  had  chosen  an  act  from  one  of  his  most  popular  melo- 
dramas to  complete  the  programme,  and  the  Trial  Scene 
was  reserved  for  the  final  item. 

Certainly  it  was  a  meaty  audience  who  were  gathered 
in.  The  theatre  was  packed  with  a  cheerful  "How-do-you- 
do"  whistling  crowd,  who  hurled  recognitions  and  shrill 
pleasantries  from  one  part  of  the  house  to  the  other. 

In  the  second  row  of  the  stalls  sat  Henry  Churchill.  He 
had  the  look  of  a  man  attending  his  own  funeral. 

Within  his  bosom  there  surged  a  great  resentment  against 
Eliphalet  Cardomay,  a  resentment  which  would  certainly 
find  expression  when  their  meeting  took  place  after  the  per- 
formance. His  anger  was  not  lessened  when  he  found 
himself  greatly  enthralled  by  "The  Corsican  Brothers,"  and 
worked  up  to  a  keen  pitch  of  excitement  by  the  act  from 
"The  Weir."  It  was  infuriating  that  this  shameless  mum- 
mer could  be  capable  of  inspiring  sensations  other  than  those 
of  disgust  in  his  properly  ordered  brain. 

Then  he  found  himself  overtaken  by  a  feeling  of  great 
nervous  apprehension.  In  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  see- 
ing his  beloved  bathed  in  the  effulgent  glow  of  the  lime — 
treading  the  first  stage  of  the  road  to  ruin. 

Then  the  curtain  rose  on  the  Trial  Scene. 

It  must  be  confessed,  after  the  generous  and  lurid  fare 
that  had  been  accorded  them,  the  audience  (not  excepting 
the  Hepplewhite  Shakespeare  Society)  failed  to  look  for- 
ward with  any  pleasurable  anticipation  to  this  example  of 
the  Bard's  genius. 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH          93 

Very  naturally  they  felt  aggrieved  that  William  Shake- 
speare should  have  been  dragged  into  an  afternoon's  enter- 
tainment, when  the  time  allotted  him  might  have  been 
more  profitably  spent  with  the  work  of  some  lesser  littera- 
teur. Consequently  their  attitude  was  disposed  to  be  hostile. 

Wonderful  to  relate,  Eunice  Terry  felt  no  apprehensions. 
She  was  quite  certain  of  herself.  She  had  spent  long  hours 
"getting"  her  "silly  old  lines,"  and  she  had  "got"  them. 
True,  she  thought  the  part  was  a  "dud  and  a  stuma,"  and 
she  didn't  pretend  to  understand  half  the  things  she  had  to 
say — still,  that  was  the  way  with  Shakespeare,  and  she  had 
a  "perfect  duck  of  a  make-up."  Violet  O'Neal  had  helped 
her  with  it,  and  never  were  lily  tints  and  rose  more  happily 
blended.  She  was  as  sure  of  her  success  as  though  already 
her  picture  postcards  had  gone  into  the  hundredth  edition. 

Before  going  on,  she  approached  Mr.  Cardomay,  sombre 
and  Semitic  as  the  Merchant,  and  asked,  more  for  something 
to  say  than  from  any  doubt  on  the  point,  "D'you  think  I 
shall  be  all  right?"  and  he  gravely  replied,  "You  will  do 
everything  I  expect  of  you." 

It  would  not  be  fair  to  follow  the  performance  through  its 
disastrous  stages  of  incompetence  and  "dry-up"  to  the  abrupt 
and  unfinished  climax.  The  Shakespearean  Society  were 
chiefly  responsible  for  the  disturbance.  From  the  moment 
of  Eunice's  first  entrance  they  felt  an  insult  had  been  placed 
upon  their  intelligence,  an  insult  that  called  for  immediate 
reprisals.  The  Quality  of  Mercy  is  all  very  well,  but  when 
you  are  told  about  it  by  someone  who  evidently  hasn't  the 
slightest  idea  what  she  is  talking  about,  the  most  lenient 
is  apt  to  change  his  mercy  to  a  Quality  of  Justice. 

To  borrow  a  phrase  from  the  parlance  of  "the  road," 
Eunice  Terry  asked  for,  and  got,  "the  Bird." 


94  THE   OLD   CARD 

At  first  she  didn't  understand,  and  floundered  on  hope- 
lessly through  a  quagmire  of  unbalanced  lines.  Then,  to  an 
accompaniment  of  shouts  and  whistles,  the  truth  dawned  on 
her,  and  her  little  lower  lip  shot  out  and  began  to  work  spas- 
modically. 

Seeing  which,  Henry  Churchill  got  up  and  "engaged"  the 
gallery. 

"You  cowards!"  he  cried. 

And  Freddie  Manning  from  the  prompt  corner  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  tumult  to  shout: 

"Shall  I  ring  down,  Guv'nor?" 

"No,"  said  Eliphalet,  but  he  had  to  shut  his  eyes  to  hide 
the  grief  on  the  little  face  before  him.  "Go  on,  Miss  Terry." 

"I— I  can't." 

"You  must." 

"I  can't— I've  forgotten— I  don't  want  to " 

"Rotten!"  shouted  the  house  with  one  accord.  "Rot- 
ten!" 

Then  Eunice  burst  into  tears  and  rushed  from  the  stage, 
and  simultaneously  Henry  Churchill  fought  his  way  out  of 
the  stalls. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Eliphalet 
Cardomay,  and  the  curtain  fell. 

Eunice  Terry  was  crying  brokenly  against  a  scene  flat,  but 
he  offered  her  no  word  of  comfort  or  condolence.  He  had 
seen  Henry  Churchill's  furious  exit  from  the  stalls,  and  he 
hoped  he  wouldn't  be  long. 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  done  yourself  very  little  good, 
Miss  Terry,"  he  said. 

"I — I'll  never  act  again!"  she  sobbed. 

Then,  at  the  psychological  moment,  when  all  the  world 


THE   ELIPHALET  TOUCH         95 

was  against  her,  came  Henry  Churchill,  with  a  broad  shoul- 
der, to  soak  up  her  tears. 

"As  for  you,  sir,  to  expose  her  to  such — such  brutal  treat- 
ment," he  exploded  over  his  enveloping  arm,  "if  you  were  a 
younger  man,  I'd — I'd " 

"Why?"  said  Eliphalet. 

"As  it  is,  I  shall  take  her  away  here  and  now.  Yes,  and 
if  you  sue  us  for  breach  of  contract,  we  shall  fight." 

"Don't  fight,"  said  Eliphalet  quietly.  "Rather  live  hap- 
pily ever  afterwards." 

"Go,  dear,  put  on  your  things,  and  I'll  get  you  out  of 
this." 

"Yes,  Henry." 

And  so  anxiously  did  she  obey  his  instructions  that  she 
took  off  her  stage  make-up  and  forgot  to  put  on  the  one  for 
the  street.  She  even  forgot  the  white  fox  in  her  haste  to  be 
off. 

Through  his  dressing-room  window  Eliphalet  Cardomay 
watched  Henry  Churchill,  still  scarlet  with  indignation,  place 
Mary  Kent  in  a  cab  and  drive  away. 

"I  have  often  remarked,  Manning,"  he  said,  "one  gets 
very  little  thanks  for  doing  things  for  people." 


CHAPTER  V 

GETTING  THE  BEST 

DESPITE  his  remark  at  the  conclusion  of  the  foregoing 
chapter  it  was  not  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  habit  to 
look  for  thanks,  and  on  the  rare  occasions  when  it  was 
offered  he  usually  murmured  something  quite  incoherent 
and  sought  to  escape.  His  real  lode-star  was  to  obtain  a 
result,  and  no  amount  of  personal  inconvenience  counted  in 
this  most  vital  of  all  obligations.  To  obtain  the  best  re- 
sult from  the  material  at  hand  was  practically  his  religion. 
Not  as  a  rule  given  to  boasting,  yet  he  might  frequently 
be  heard  to  say: 

"I  can  always  be  sure  of  getting  the  best  from  any  mem- 
ber of  my  company,  be  it  in  or  out  of  the  theatre." 

It  was  a  harmless  enough  little  foible  and  saved  many  an 
inept  actor  or  actress  from  reproaches.  Eliphalet  would  argue 
that  even  though  the  quality  of  art  with  which  they  served 
him  was  indifferent,  it  represented  the  high-water  mark  of 
which  they  were  capable,  and  so  he  forebore  to  criticise. 

Like  the  martyrs  of  old,  Eliphalet  lived  his  ideals  and 
was  ready  to  uphold  them  by  any  sacrifice,  as  the  suc- 
ceeding episode  goes  to  demonstrate. 

No  first-class  provincial  touring  company  need  despise 
the  Pier  Pavilion  at  Brestwater-super-Mare.  It  boasts  a 
stage  of  bold  proportions,  a  capacious  be-mirrored  and 
luxuriously-upholstered  auditorium  and  a  facade  that  com- 

96 


GETTING   THE  BEST  97 

pels  instant  admiration.  The  design,  a  happy  mixture  of  all 
the  exhibition  buildings  which  have  ever  sprung  into  exist- 
ence, combined  with  a  strong  vein  of  Moorish  architecture, 
is  a  triumph  of  skill  and  ingenuity. 

Well,  indeed,  may  the  happy  manager  who  has  been 
fortunate  enough  to  book  a  week  there  swell  with  pride 
as  he  passes  the  turnstile  of  the  Pier,  without  the  prepay- 
ment of  twopence,  and  sees  the  majestic  domes  and  spires 
of  the  Pavilion  whitely  silhouette  themselves  against  the 
turquoise  Channel  waters.  In  such  inspired  surroundings, 
with  the  chuckle  of  sea  beneath  his  feet,  and  the  singing 
of  the  wind  in  his  ears,  who  could  choose  but  feel  carefree 
and  joyous,  and  give  both-handedly  of  his  artistic  best? 

But  Eliphalet  Cardomay,  one  of  the  mildest  creatures 
God  ever  placed  upon  earth — a  man  of  most  even  temper 
and  lovable  qualities — sensitive  to  an  extreme  of  the  influ- 
ences of  his  environments — was  in  a  dark  and  forbidding 
mood.  The  beauty  of  the  day,  the  music  of  the  water, 
the  rococo  architecture,  were  as  nothing  to  him.  With 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  stickless  and  hatless,  he 
strode  the  pier  boards  like  a  man  possessed. 

The  importunities  of  peroxided  young  ladies  who,  from 
the  vantage  of  their  little  kiosks,  besought  him  to  buy 
chocolates,  local  views,  frozen  roses — or  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery of  a  certain  walking-stick  which  in  adept  hands 
would  transform  itself  into  a  useless  pen — he  almost  rudely 
ignored. 

"Phtsss!"  he  exploded  aloud.  "The  man's  a  coward — 
an  incompetent." 

He  gripped  the  railings  of  the  Pier  and  gazed  fiercely 
out  to  sea,  while  the  wind  played  cornfields  in  his  long 
grey  hair. 


98  THE   OLD   CARD 

A  photographer,  ever  alert  for  fresh  victims,  approached 
and  commenting  upon  the  favourable  condition  of  the  ele- 
ments, suggested  that  the  gentleman  might  feel  disposed 
to  have  a  "likeness"  taken. 

"I  do  not  feel  disposed,"  returned  Eliphalet,  curtly. 

"I  have  some  most  amusing  backgrounds,"  continued  the 
photographer,  in  no  wise  rebuffed,  and  proceeded,  to  de- 
scribe how,  in  his  professional  opinion,  Eliphalet  would 
prove  a  suitable  subject  to  place  his  head  through  a  hole 
in  a  large  canvas  upon  which  was  painted  an  astonishingly- 
clad  individual  riding  on  a  rocking-horse.  He  wound  up 
with  the  words,  "Causes  roars  of  laughter." 

Eliphalet  spun  round  and  fixed  two  pin-points  upon  his 
frock-coated  persecutor. 

"Are  you  seeking  to  amuse  yourself  at  my  expense?" 

"No,  sir — I  assure  you." 

"Then  go  away." 

But  the  photographer  was  not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with. 
His  hand  flew  to  his  hip  pocket,  in  the  manner  of  a  mining- 
camp  desperado,  and  withdrew  a  neat  fan  of  samples  of  his 
craft. 

"I  am  sure,"  he  blandly  ventured,  "after  a  glance  through 
these,  I  should  number  you  among  my  patrons." 

With  a  view  to  scattering  the  photographer's  examples 
upon  the  waves,  Eliphalet  Cardomay  snatched  them  from 
the  extended  hand;  but  before  he  had  accomplished  his 
intention  he  abruptly  checked  himself.  The  top  photo- 
graph had  caught  his  eye.  It  depicted  a  knock-kneed  indi- 
vidual dressed  in  a  close-fitting  striped  garment,  shivering 
upon  the  steps  of  a  bathing-machine. 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  Eliphalet,  surveying  the  image  at  the 
length  of  his  arm.  "Ha!" 


GETTING   THE  BEST  99 

"Most  amusing,  is  it  not?"  volunteered  the  photographic 
artist,  with  an  accompanying  smile  usually  employed  as 
a  pattern  for  his  more  serious  sitters. 

Eliphalet  regarded  him  with  one  eyebrow  raised  high 
above  its  fellow. 

"Amusing!  Appropriate,  if  you  like,  but  amusing — no 
— it  is  contemptible."  And  so  saying,  he  slapped  the  pho- 
tographs into  the  astonished  artist's  hand  and,  throwing 
back  his  head,  stalked  off,  past  the  line  of  melancholy  fish- 
ers in  the  direction  of  his  dressing-room. 

Upon  the  stripped  stage  were  assembled  the  various 
members  of  his  company;  for  the  most  part  they  had  com- 
posed themselves  in  little  groups  and  were  talking  in  ani- 
mated whispers. 

Out  of  the  medley  of  subdued  tongues  occasional  frag- 
ments of  speech  were  aduible. 

"But  these  juveniles  are  not  like  they  were  in  our  day, 
Kitterson." 

"You  could  see  Mr.  Cardomay  was  in  a  rage,"  said 
Violet  O'Neal. 

"He'd  have  sworn  if  he  hadn't  gone  out,"  returned  Miss 
Fullar. 

"Can't  think  what  Cartwright's  making  such  a  fuss  over." 

"Any  fool  could  jump  six  feet  into  a  net." 

"Wish  they'd  give  me  the  part." 

"You  can't  get  away  from  it,  old  man,  Cartwright's  no 
actor." 

With  his  back  against  the  proscenium  and  fiddling  with 
an  unlighted  cigarette,  stood  an  isolated  figure,  over  whom 
seemed  to  hover  a  spirit  of  tragedy.  Ever  and  anon  his 
eyes  sought  a  wooden  structure  at  the  back  of  the  stage. 
The  structure  was  in  the  nature  of  a  rostrum,  about  ten 


loo  THE   OLD   CARD 

feet  in  height,  beneath  which  was  stretched  a  substantial 
net  some  thirty  inches  clear  of  the  boards. 

This  young  man  was  Mr.  Aloysius  Cartwright,  the  new 
jeune  premier  for  the  forthcoming  production. 

Up  and  down  before  him,  his  bowler  hat  eclipsing  his 
right  eye  and  the  major  portion  of  the  right  side  of  his 
face,  walked  Mr.  Manning,  the  stage-manager.  Presently 
he  halted  in  his  stride  and  addressed  Mr.  Cartwright. 

"Look  here,  why  don't  you  have  another  packet  at  it 
while  the  Guv'nor's  away?  Make  up  your  mind  to  do  it, 
and  it's  as  good  as  done." 

"No,  really,  Manning,  I've — I  can't." 

Freddie  Manning  sniffed  noisily. 

"It  comes  to  this,  o'  man.  You'll  put  the  kibosh  on  the 
whole  show  if  you  don't.  I  can't  see  what  you're  raising 
the  wind  over.  You  told  me  you  were  a  swimmer,  too." 

"Oh,  I  can  swim  a  bit,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 

it.  What  I "  He  stopped,  for  at  that  moment  Eliph- 

alet  Cardomay  appeared  through  the  swing-doors. 

His  entrance  caused  something  of  a  nervous  flutter,  for 
everyone  had  felt  the  effects  of  the  rehearsal  which  had 
ended  in  his  abrupt  departure. 

The  wrath  of  a  naturally  quiet-humoured  man  is  always 
somewhat  alarming,  for  no  one  can  be  sure  of  the  direc- 
tion in  which  it  will  vent  itself.  But  apparently  the  thun- 
der-clouds had  passed  away,  for  when  Eliphalet  came  to  a 
halt  in  the  glare  of  the  bunch  light,  his  features  were 
almost  seraphic  in  their  calm. 

"Come,  Manning,"  he  said.  "We  will  go  on,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  please.  Mr.  Cartwright,  I  apologise  for  my 
hasty  departure  a  while  ago,  but  you — well,  I  was  upset. 
It  is  a  matter  of  personal  pride  with  me  that  I  have  always 


GETTING   THE  BEST  101 

— and  in  using  the  word  I  speak  advisedly — have  always 
been  able  to  get  the  best  out  of  any  actor  or  actress  I  have 
employed.  For  a  moment  I  feared  that  you — that  I  was  to 
sacrifice  that  reputation;  and  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Cartwright, 
you  would  not  willingly  cause  me  so  much  distress." 

"Well,  I "  began  Aloysius  Cartwright — but  the  senior 

man  held  up  his  hand  in  a  gesture  compelling  silence. 

"Perhaps  you  have  not  fully  realised  the  essence  of  the 
scene  and  what  I  have  here  may  help  you  to  do  so."  So 
saying,  he  unrolled  a  large  sheet  of  paper  he  had  been  car- 
rying and  displayed  a  very  lurid  poster  of  a  young  man  in 
evening  dress  leaping  from  a  lock-gate  into  a  canal.  It  was 
a  striking  composition  in  which  black  shadows  and  a  much- 
reflected  moon  played  important  parts. 

"Now,  Mr.  Cartwright,  with  this  as  your  guide  I  am 
certain  I  shall  not  appeal  to  you  in  vain."  And  Eliphalet 
Cardomay,  having  made  the  amende  honorable  for  his  pre- 
vious ill-humour,  smiled  a  kindly  smile  of  encouragement. 

But  Aloysius  Cartwright  failed  to  seize  the  opportunity 
of  reinstating  himself  in  his  manager's  good  graces. 

"It — it  is  all  very  well,  sir,  but  I  wish  to  say  that  I  am 
neither  an  acrobat  nor  a  cinema  actor — my  tastes  are  for 
— for  legitimate  work." 

The  lines  about  Eliphalet's  mouth  drew  down  and  hard- 
ened. "I  think,"  he  said,  "you  are  confusing  the  issue. 
The  question  appears  to  me  to  turn  more  upon  personal 
valour  than  upon  anything  else."  Then,  speaking  with 
sudden  enthusiasm,  "Why,  my  dear,  dear  boy — consider  a 
moment.  Put  yourself  in  the  hero's  position.  Imagine  your 
own  sweetheart  bound  hand  and  foot  and  struggling  in  the 
waters  of  the  canal.  Would  you  hesitate  for  a  second? 
No.  Would  you  falter  before  the  task  of  saving  her  from 


102  THE   OLD    CARD 

the  clutches  of  the  stream?  No,  no.  Then  be  the  man 
whom  you're  portraying.  Play  upon  the  impulsiveness  of 
your  nature,  the  gallantry  of  your  youth,  the  pluck — the 
enthusiasm — the  elan:  lift  up — grip  us — thrill  us,  and— 
with  an  abrupt  change  from  the  inspired  to  the  finite,  "do 
remember  that  we're  producing  the  day  after  to-morrow." 
"I'll  try,"  said  Mr.  Cartwright. 

"Clear  the  stage,"  shouted  Manning,  clapping  his  hands 
to  support  the  order.  "Up  left,  Miss  Maybank,  please. 
Come  on,  Fieldfare — for  goodness'  sake,  o'  man.  Now 
where's  that  rope?  Props!  PROPS II"  An  old  man  wear- 
ing a  green  baize  apron  thrust  his  head  through  the  open- 
ing to  the  scene  dock.  "Get  that  rope — quick — and  try 
and  remember  some  of  us  live  by  eating,  and  don't  want 
to  be  here  all  day.  There  you  are!  Catch  hold,  Den  ton  1 
Where'll  they  start,  Guv'nor?" 

"Miss  O'Neal's  entrance.     I'll  go  into  the  stalls." 
"Your  entrance,  my  dear.     Ready,  sir?     Right." 
Violet  O'Neal  the  ingenue,  stepped  out  from  behind  an 
imaginary  wing  and  began  to  walk  between  two  chalked 
lines  on  the  stage,  indicating  the  bank  of  the  river  on  one 
hand,  and  the  ancient  mill  on  the  other.    In  the  excitement 
of  the  moment  she  overstepped  the  margins  of  the  line. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Eliphalet,  rising  from  his  seat.  "It 
is  not  the  intention  you  should  fall  in  the  water  before 
being  thrown  there." 

"Back,  please,"  from  Manning.     "Once  more,  please." 
Violet  retraced  her  steps  and  came  on  again  with  the 
nervous  air  of  an  amateur  walking  the  tightrope. 

Eliphalet  tapped  with  his  stick  on  the  brass  rail  of  the 
orchestra  pit. 


GETTING   THE  BEST  103 

"A  little  more  natural  grace,  please,"  he  suggested.  "And 
shouldn't  you  be  singing  here?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  forgot." 

"Quite — but  please  don't  forget." 

Then  Mr.  Manning,  "Once  more,  please!"  And  a  glance 
at  his  watch,  for  the  stage-manager  was  a  person  who 
took  lunch  seriously. 

This  time  she  succeeded  better  with  the  mano3uvre  and 
produced  a  humming  sound  intended  to  indicate  a  care- 
free damsel  enjoying  the  evening  air. 

Then  from  the  assumed  shadow  of  the  mill  leapt  two 
figures  and  barred  her  way. 

"Sir  Jasper — you!"  cried  the  girl. 

"Yes,  me." 

"I,"  corrected  Eliphalet. 

"Yes,  I,"  amended  Fieldfare.  "You  little  counted  on  the 
pleasure  of  renewing  our  acquaintance  so  soon — eh?"  (Sin- 
ister words  with  a  hint  of  dark  deeds  behind  them.) 

"Please  let  me  pass."     This  imperiously  from  the  girl. 

"Pass!  There  is  but  one  passing  for  you,  and  that  lies 
there."  With  a  gesture  towards  where  the  water  would  be 
on  the  night.  "Unless " 

"I  am  not  a  child  to  be  frightened  by  such  threats,  Sir 
Jasper.  Stand  aside,  or  I  shall  cry  for  help." 

"Cry,  will  you? — and  who  will  answer  it?  The  trees — 
the  hills— the  river?" 

Mr.  Cartwright  placed  his  foot  in  the  lowest  rung  of  the 
ladder  leading  to  the  rostrum. 

Miss  Maybank:    "I  command  you  to  let  me  pass." 

Fieldfare:  "You  little  fool!  Don't  you  realise  that  at 
this  moment  you  are  utterly  mine? — that  I  could  flick 


104  THE   OLD    CARD 

out  your  life  as  easily  as — er — "  he  fluffed  for  his  words, 
"as  easily  as  I  could  crack  a  nut  in  a  door?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  interrupted  Eliphalet. 
"Beneath  my  heel  is  the  line.  Persons  of  quality  do  not 
crack  nuts  in  doors." 

Fieldfare:    "Crack  a  nut  beneath  my  heels." 

"HEEL — singular.  It  is  not  a  cocoanut  that  requires 
both  feet." 

"Beneath  my  heel,"  pursued  Fieldfare  with  a  nervous- 
ness which  reflected  itself  in  Mr.  Aloysius  Cartwright's  lick- 
lipping,  collar-in-finger  perturbation.  "Choose,  and  choose 
quickly — life  with  me,  or  death,  and  death  alone." 

"God  help  me!" 

"Choose." 

"Then  I  choose." 

Like  lightning  she  whisked  round  to  make  good,  but 
the  second  man  was  upon  her,  and  bound  her  wrists  with 
cruel  dexterity. 

"Frank — Frank!"  she  cried. 

Fieldfare:  "Little  fool!  by  now  your  Frank  is  in  the 
arms  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleeve." 

"It's  a  liel" 

"No,  the  truth.  So  make  up  your  mind  quickly — your 
lover  is  false  to  you — which  shall  it  be — life  or  death?" 

"If  life  means  life  with  you — then  death  a  hundred 
times." 

Fieldfare:  "Well,  die,  then— die!"  And  with  a  cow- 
ard's blow  he  pushed  her  over  the  river-bank. 

Prompter:  "Splash!  Two  handfuls  of  rice,  and  that's 
your  cue  light,  Mr.  Cartwright." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  the  panic  had  deserted 


GETTING   THE  BEST  105 

Aloysius,  for  he  clattered  up  the  steps  three  at  a  time, 
crying: 

"Doris!     Doris!     Where  are  you?    Doris,  I  say!" 

Fieldfare:  "H'st!  Quickly  away!"  And  he  and  his 
companion  flitted  into  the  shadows  as  Cartwright,  like  a 
human  whirlwind,  dashed  on  to  the  lock  bridge. 

Like  a  man  distraught,  he  gripped  the  bridge  rail  and 
cried: 

"Where  are  you,  my  love?    Where  are  you?" 

From  the  water  below  came  a  faint  cry  of: 

"Fraaank!    Fr — a — P'gugle — gugle. 

Cartwright:  "My  God! — in  the  river — drowning!  I 
— I  am  coming!" 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  leaned  forward  tensely  in  his  stall, 
as  with  superb  abandon  the  hero  whipped  off  his  dress  coat 
and,  casting  it  from  him,  sprang  on  to  the  rail  of  the 
bridge.  With  hands  high  above  his  head — posed  for  a 
magnificent  dive — he  stood  there  for  one  breathless  sec- 
ond— then  suddenly  his  body  went  all  limp,  his  hands  fell 
to  his  sides,  and  he  faltered: 

"It's  no  use — I  can't  do  it,  sir." 

And  Eliphalet  Cardomay,  for  the  first  time  on  record, 
swore  before  his  entire  company. 

"Damnation!"  The  word  rang  out  like  a  tocsin.  Then, 
tearing  off  his  hat,  he  kicked  it  across  the  auditorium  and 
high  up  into  the  dress-circle. 

"Lamentable  creature!"  he  cried.    "Wretched  poltroon!" 

Mr.  Cartwright  slowly  descended  from  the  rostrum. 

"It  is  not  part  of  my  professional  ambition  to  leap  into 
a  net,"  he  faltered. 

"Leap!"  echoed  Eliphalet  wildly.  "Leap!  Dare  you 
employ  such  a  word?  I  have  seen  a  tile  fall  from  a  roof 


io6  THE   OLD   CARD 

with  more  grace.  I  have  seen  a  blind  man  stumble  on  a 
banana-skin  with  greater  dignity.  But  a  more  pitiable, 
craven-hearted  exhibition  than  yours  I — I—  Words 

failed  him.  "You  have  ruined  my  belief  in  the  younger 
generation — you  have  shattered  my  belief  in  myself.  Man- 
ning, Manning!  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Have  a  bit  of  lunch,  Guv'nor,  and  talk  it  over  quietly 
afterwards." 

So  attractive  did  the  proposition  sound  that  without 
awaiting  the  sanction  of  the  master,  the  entire  company 
trooped  to  the  wings  and,  grabbing  their  hats  and  coats, 
made  for  the  nearest  exit. 

Never  before  in  the  recollection  of  the  oldest  member 
of  the  company  had  "the  Guv'nor"  given  way  to  the  slight- 
est exhibition  of  temper,  and  the  occasion  had  seriously 
unnerved  them.  That  he  should  have  lost  control  of  him- 
self to  the  extent  of  using  violent  language,  and  kicking 
his  defenceless  hat,  was  a  revelation  which  could  only  be 
conversationally  approached  in  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine. 

Some  form  of  belated  courage  induced  Mr.  Cartwright  to 
remain,  after  the  others  had  departed,  brushing  his  Hom- 
burg  hat  upon  his  sleeve  and  buttoning  and  unbuttoning 
his  gloves.  He  of  all  others  had  the  greater  reason  for 
flight,  and  to  his  credit  be  it  entered  that  he  lingered. 

But  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  in  no  mood  to  spare  him 
on  that  account.  Like  a  destroyer  circling  a  troop-ship, 
he  revolved  round  the  unhappy  Aloysius,  ever  and  anon 
firing  salvoes  of  reproach  and  opprobrium. 

Even  when,  unable  to  endure  longer  the  whips  and  scorns 
of  the  managerial  tongue,  Mr.  Cartwright  sought  to  escape, 
Eliphalet  was  close  upon  his  heels,  jerking  out  verbal 
grenades  of  the  most  poignant  nature. 


GETTING   THE  BEST  107 

Past  the  lines  of  melancholy  fishers  they  pursued  their 
way,  hunted  and  hunter;  through  the  turnstile  of  what 
might  be  called  the  super-pier  upon  which  the  Pavilion 
was  situated,  they  made  their  way — Mr.  Cartwright  doing 
his  best  to  preserve  an  air  of  stoic  endurance,  and  Eli- 
phalet  Cardomay  following  with  periodical  explosions  of 
artistic  wrath. 

Above  the  box-office,  the  lurid  poster  of  the  hero  leaping 
into  the  canal  insisted  upon  recognition. 

"Look!"  cried  Eliphalet,  restraining  his  quarry  with  the 
crook  of  his  stick.  "Look,  and  be  ashamed!  That  is 

what  I  have  led  the  public  to  expect,  and "  His  eye 

fell  upon  the  photographer's  booth,  not  five  yards  distant, 
beside  which  sat  a  young  lady,  tilting  back  her  chair  against 
the  chain  bulwarks  of  the  pier.  "HA!  It  is  not  too  late 
to  make  amends.  I  have  never  yet  cheated  my  public. 
Come!"  And  seizing  the  youth  by  the  arm,  he  dragged 
him  protestingly  towards  the  temple  of  photographic  art. 

The  photographer  was  seated  within,  indulging  his  appe- 
tite with  a  cut  from  the  joint  and  two  vegetables  imported 
from  a  neighbouring  cafe.  He  rose,  politely  masticating, 
as  the  two  came  in,  and  inquired,  to  the  best  ability  of 
his  well-filled  mouth,  in  what  manner  he  could  be  of  ser- 
vice to  them. 

"I  have  brought  you  a  subject,"  said  Eliphalet.  "I 
wish  you  to  take  this  gentleman  with  his  head  thrust 
through  the  hole  of  that  vile  canvas  of  the  shivering  crea- 
ture on  the  bathing-machine  steps." 

"I  protest,"  began  Cartwright,  but  Eliphalet  talked  him 
down. 

"I  shall  want  it  enlarged  to  the  size  of  the  poster  yonder, 


io8  THE   OLD   CARD 

which  it  is  destined  to  supplant.  I  shall  placard  it  on 
every  hoarding  in  the  town.  I  shall " 

But  the  sentence  was  never  completed,  for  from  imme- 
diately outside  came  a  sharp,  wild  scream.  Through  the 
windows  of  the  studio  they  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of 
a  pair  of  white  shoes  and  stockings  pointing  towards 
Heaven  for  a  fraction  of  time.  Followed  another  shriller 
scream  and  a  deep,  resonant  splash. 

"Good  'eavens!"  cried  the  photographer,  rendered  aitch- 
less by  surprise.  "That  girl's  fallen  in." 

By  common  consent  they  rushed  out,  and  were  con- 
fronted with  a  view  of  an  upturned  chair,  a  swinging  chain, 
and  in  the  water  below,  the  flash  of  a  white  skirt  and  an 
outstretched  hand. 

"She's  drowning!"  gasped  Eliphalet,  in  genuine  horror. 

Then  spoke  Aloysius  Cartwright,  and  his  words  tum- 
bled over  one  another  like  the  waters  of  a  cataract: 

"Here's  a  chance,  sir — a  chance!  You — you've  slanged 
and  vilified  me  all  the  morning  for  making  a  muddle  of 
the  rescue  scene.  Here's  the  real  thing!  Here's  a  chance 
to  show  me  how  to  do  it  now!" 

The  walking-stick  fell  from  Eliphalet's  hand  and  a  fine 
colour  flushed  his  cheek,  as  he  said,  articulating  each  word 
with  biting  emphasis: 

"I  am  sixty-two  years  of  age,  Mr.  Cartwright." 

But  Cartwright,  his  temper  roused  by  much  pricking, 
was  beyond  the  touch  of  sarcasm. 

"I  merely  said  it  was  a  chance,"  he  replied.  "I  didn't 
expect  you  would  take  it." 

The  old  man's  face  went  very  white,  and  with  trembling 
fingers  he  released  the  buttons  of  his  long  coat. 

"Did  you  not?"  he  said.    "I  have  never  asked  a  man 


GETTING   THE  BEST  109 

to  perform  what  I  lacked  the  courage  to  do  myself,  Mr. 
Cartwright,  so  kindly  observe  me."  And,  throwing  aside 
his  coat,  he  sprang  head-first  into  the  water. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Cartwright,  and  fell  back  a 
pace. 

Naturally,  by  this  time  a  crowd  had  assembled.  With  the 
light  of  hope  in  their  eyes,  and  greatly  to  the  confusion 
of  their  lines,  the  melancholy  fishermen  came  hurrying  to 
the  spot.  The  various  sweet  and  novelty  shops  swiftly 
gave  up  their  complement  of  be-pearled,  peroxided  maid- 
ens. A  very  worldly-wise  young  man,  in  a  blue  suit, 
which  seemed  to  be  entering  into  a  colour  competition  with 
the  sea,  on  the  not  unnatural  assumption  that  a  cinema 
play  was  in  course  of  production,  asked  his  friend  where 
the  camera  was  situated.  From  the  far  side  of  the  pier  a 
boatman,  whose  duty  it  was  to  guard  the  destinies  of  bath- 
ers, aroused  himself  from  lethargy  and  plied  a  busy  oar 
among  the  pier-piles,  beneath  the  spectators,  towards  the 
confusion  in  the  water.  An  old  lady  in  a  bath-chair,  who, 
that  very  morning,  had  confided  to  her  fellow-guests  at  the 
boarding-house  her  utter  inability  to  walk  unaided,  alighted 
from  her  conveyance  with  surprising  alacrity  and  managed 
to  secure  a  place  in  the  front  row,  while,  in  token  of  the 
mistake  of  leaping  rapidly  to  conclusions,  from  the  back 
of  the  crowd  came  a  querulous  and  oft-repeated  cry  of 
"Fire!" 

"Make  a  passage  there,"  shouted  a  compelling  voice,  and 
shouldering  his  way  through  the  crowd  came  Mr.  Man- 
ning. 

Seeing  Cartwright,  he  demanded: 

"What  the  hell's  up?" 


no  THE   OLD   CARD 

"The  Guv'nor!  A  girl  fell  into  the  sea,  and — and  he — 
he  went  in  after  her." 

"What!  But  he  can't  swim,  man — he'll  drown!"  And 
gripping  the  pier  railings,  Mr.  Manning  leant  perilously 
over  the  side. 

"You  don't  mean  that,"  gasped  Cartwright. 

"Mean  it!    Look  for  yourself,  you  fool  I" 

And  Cartwright  looked. 

The  young  lady  on  whose  behalf  Mr.  Cardomay  had 
committed  himself  to  the  deep  had  already  disappeared. 
A  kindly  wave  had  washed  her  to  within  easy  grasp  of  an 
iron  cross-tie,  where,  gripping  tenaciously,  she  moved  in 
rhythmic  sympathy  to  the  motions  of  the  channel  tide. 
But  the  case  of  Eliphalet  was  none  so  good.  Neither  was 
Rome  built,  nor  are  divers  made,  in  a  day.  Eliphalet  had 
landed  (to  use  a  contradiction  in  terms)  full-length  and  flat 
upon  the  waters,  and  as  a  result  suffered  the  loss  of  every 
vestige  of  wind  his  lungs  contained.  Wherefore  the  process 
of  drowning  was  but  a  matter  of  moments.  Already  he  had 
made  one  of  his  allotted  three  excursions  among  the  lami- 
naria  of  the  ocean  bed,  and  the  second  was  in  active 
course  of  preparation. 

"Oh,  Guv'nor!"  wailed  Mr.  Manning.  "You  can't  swim, 
and  neither  can  I." 

And  then  the  unexpected  came  to  pass.  Mr.  Aloysius 
Cartwright — one-time  coward  and  craven — of  a  sudden 
became  a  hero  and  a  man.  Disregarding  the  sensibilities 
of  the  feminine  element  in  the  crowd,  he  peeled  off  his 
coat  and  vest,  kicked  his  beautiful  brogue  shoes  right  and 
left  (incidentally  breaking  one  of  the  photographer's  win- 
dows), and  performed  a  dive  so  faultless  in  its  athletic  per- 


GETTING   THE  BEST  111 

fection  as  to  excite  a  cry  of  rapture  and  amazement  from 
all  present. 

He  "took  off"  at  the  precise  moment  Eliphalet  came  to 
the  surface  for  the  second  time,  and  it  was  only  by  a  mir- 
acle he  failed  to  torpedo  that  unhappy  man  or  alight  head- 
first in  the  prow  of  the  boat  which  had  unexpectedly  shot 
out  from  beneath  the  pier. 

It  is  certain  and  beyond  dispute  that  had  he  delayed 
another  second  he  would  have  broken  his  own  neck,  sunk 
the  boat  and  driven  Eliphalet  finally  to  the  bottom.  But 
the  tragedy  was  averted,  and  he  cleft  the  waves  with  scarce 
a  bubble  to  mark  his  entry.  Reappearing  with  a  strong 
side-stroke  some  twenty  feet  away,  he  made  for  the  boat, 
where  his  assistance  was  instrumental  in  considerably  de- 
laying the  work  of  rescue. 

It  was  a  sorry-looking  and  draggle-tailed  trio  who  eventu- 
ally came  to  port  at  the  little  iron  stairway  by  the  pier- 
head. Between  them  Cartwright  and  Mr.  Manning  con- 
veyed Eliphalet  Cardomay  to  a  couch  in  his  dressing-room. 
The  young  lady  who  caused  these  sensational  happenings 
was  carried  off  by  one  of  the  peroxide  sisterhood,  and 
departs  from  our  field  of  vision  in  a  semi-hysterical  con- 
dition. 

It  was  Mr.  Manning  who  took  entire  charge  of  the  work 
of  bringing  "the  Guv'nor"  round,  and  did  it  with  that 
thoroughness  which  distinguished  all  his  undertakings. 

Eventually  Eliphalet  opened  his  eyes  and  let  them  drift 
round  the  room  until  they  came  to  rest  on  Aloysius  Cart- 
wright,  who  was  forming  an  island  in  an  ocean  that  dripped 
from  his  clothes.  Eliphalet  regarded  him  with  a  puzzled 
expression  which  suddenly  cleared  and  was  supplanted  by 
a  rare  and  almost  beautiful  smile. 


112  THE   OLD   CARD 

"That  was  a  wonderful  dive,  Mr.  Cartwright,"  he  mur- 
mured. "Just  what  I  wanted."  The  smile  transformed 
itself  into  a  look  of  great  contentment.  "I  have  always 
believed  I  could  bring  out  the  best  in  any  member  of  my 
company.  I  think  I  am  justified  in  holding  that  opinion 
still." 

This  is  an  advertising  age,  and  the  success  of  a  com- 
modity depends  not  so  much  on  its  quality  as  the  qual- 
ity of  the  advertisement  bringing  it  before  the  public  eye. 
Nevertheless,  and  despite  the  packed  houses  which  patro- 
nised his  new  production,  Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  highly 
incensed  when  asked  by  a  reporter  to  confide  to  the  col- 
umns of  the  Brest-water  Mercury  the  precise  sum  he  had 
paid  in  gold  to  the  young  lady  who  fell  into  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  VI 

QUICKSANDS  OF   TRADITION 

PEOPLE  who  imagine  an  actor's  life  is  all  honey  forget 
that  he  has  to  read  plays,  and  the  reading  of  plays  is 
at  once  the  most  onerous  and  exacting  of  all  tasks. 

Not  one  in  a  hundred  is  fit  to  be  read,  and  scarcely  one 
in  a  thousand  deserves  production. 

Nearly  everyone  believes  he  can  write  a  play,  and  most 
of  these  believers  have  a  shot  at  it — and  good,  bad  or  in- 
different, each  one  of  these  shots  is  stuffed  into  the  barrel 
of  a  quarto  envelope,  charged  with  the  address  of  this  or 
that  theatrical  manager,  and  propelled  by  means  of  a  given 
number  of  postage-stamps  to  its  billet  upon  the  managerial 
desk.  Should  the  desk  pertain  to  one  of  the  more  illus- 
trious lights  of  the  stage,  the  envelope  is  carried  off  by  some 
erudite  young  gentleman,  employed  for  the  purpose,  who 
cons  the  manuscript  by  the  light  of  midnight  oil,  and 
directs  its  future  career  forward  or  backward,  as  the  merit 
of  the  work  suggests. 

In  pursuance  of  this  melancholy  vocation  the  optic  nerves 
and  digestive  organs  invariably  become  impaired.  The 
reader  loses  interest  in  life  and  sense  of  appreciation.  He 
becomes  a  confirmed  cynic  and  usually  blights  his  own 
career  by  throwing  out  an  obvious  winner,  and  being 
thrown  out  himself  for  so  doing. 

But  those  who  work  upon  the  Road,  who  have  no  swing- 

"3 


THE   OLD   CARD 

door  offices  in  the  Haymarket  or  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  who 
travel  year  in  and  year  out  dragging  their  productions  from 
one  town  to  another,  who  live  in  cheap  hotels  or  cheaper 
lodgings,  who  have  neither  house  nor  home  nor  any  house- 
hold goods  to  call  their  own — naught  save  a  succession  of 
ugly  theatrical  baskets — for  these  no  such  luxury  as  a 
reader  of  plays  exists.  It  is  part  of  the  price  they  must 
pay  for  billing  their  names  so  wide  and  large  on  the  pro- 
vincial hoardings  that  all  odd  hours  and  the  pleasant  maga- 
zine-time of  the  Sunday  train  journey  should  be  spent  in 
the  consideration  of  unsought-for  dramatic  effusions. 

No  one  could  compete  with  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  energy 
in  this  direction.  He  had  made  a  strict  rule  to  read  two 
plays  on  week-days  and  three  on  Sundays,  and  he  never 
departed  from  it.  Yet,  despite  his  diligent  inquiry  into  the 
realms,  or  rather,  reams,  of  the  unknown,  never  once,  in 
thirty  years  of  provincial  management,  did  he  discover 
and  produce  a  new  play.  He  just  went  on  doing  the  old 
repertory  routine  of  revival  and  re-revival,  and  then  back 
again  to  the  beginning.  Sometimes  he  would  vary  the 
order  by  purchasing  the  touring  rights  of  a  successful 
London  melodrama,  but  these  ventures  were  few  and  far 
between.  Yet  always  at  the  back  of  his  head  was  the  be- 
lief that  one  day  he  would  chance  upon  and  present  an 
entirely  original  and  unexploited  work. 

It  was  at  a  time  when  he  was  debating  on  the  advisabil- 
ity of  making  an  offer  for  the  latest  Lyceum  success  that 
a  copy  of  "A  Man's  Way"  came  to  hand. 

He  started  to  examine  it  on  a  journey  between  Glas- 
gow and  Brighton,  and  before  arriving  at  his  journey's 
end  he  had  read  it  three  times,  and  his  stage-manager, 
Freddie  Manning,  had  read  it  twice. 


"What  do  you  think,  Manning?"  he  queried. 

"Not  too  bad,"  replied  Manning,  who  was  not  given  to 
superlatives. 

"A  good  title,  'A  Man's  Way' — an  arresting  title." 

"Might  be  worse." 

"And  an  ingenious  plot." 

"M'm!" 

"Something  very  original  about  it." 

"Want's  a  lot  of  cutting." 

'Oh,  yes — too  long." 

"Damsite!" 

"This  Mr.  Theodore  Lennard — ever  heard  of  him,  Man- 
ning?" 

The  stage-manager  picked  his  teeth  negatively. 

"No,  neither  have  I.  A  first  play,  probably.  Very 
fresh  and  ingenious — modern,  too.  Yes,  yes!  The  part 
of  the  doctor — with  a  little  alteration — I  think  we  could 
get  away  with  it.  H'm!  read  it  again,  Manning — read  it 
again." 

The  result  of  Manning's  second  excursion  through  "A 
Man's  Way"  was  reassuring.  He  repeated  his  former  ver- 
dict that  it  "wasn't  too  bad." 

That  night  as  he  lay  in  bed  Eliphalet  Cardomay  digested 
"A  Man's  Way"  and  revolved  the  possibilities  of  doing  it 
in  his  mind.  It  was  so  essentially  unlike  anything  he  had 
ever  done  before  that  the  prospect  pleased.  The  central 
character  of  the  doctor  was  his  firm,  purposeful  way — his 
manner  of  treating  wife  and  patient  with  the  same  unvary- 
ing but  just  dictatorship — it  was  new,  and  yet  true  to  life 
— very  human,  if  only  on  account  of  the  unemotional  qual- 
ity of  the  work. 

From  beginning  to  end  there  wasn't  a  single  set  speech — 


ii6  THE   OLD   CARD 

no  lofty  periods  of  crescendo  to  induce  those  rapturous 
outbursts  of  applause  by  means  of  which  members  of 
provincial  audiences  seek  to  convince  their  immediate 
neighbours  that  they  are  sensible  and  appreciative  to  the 
influences  of  uplifting  thought. 

To  produce  such  a  work  would  be  a  step  up.  It  would 
present  him  as  an  actor  in  a  new  light.  He  would  encourage 
a  deeper-thinking  public.  He  would,  ipso  facto,  become 
a  modern.  Modern  influences  were  afoot  on  the  stage 
nowadays,  and  he,  Eliphalet,  still  floundered  in  the  dead 
seas  of  rodomontade.  Why  should  he  live  in  the  past, 
when  here  was  "A  Man's  Way"  to  lead  him  to  the  future? 
Eliphalet  sat  up  in  bed  and  lit  the  candle.  Somewhere  in 
the  second  act  were  some  lines  that  struck  the  key-note  of 
what  was  and  what  had  been.  They  arose  from  where  a 
poor,  half-starved  penitent  came  with  a  piteous  tale  to  tell, 
and  he,  the  doctor,  made  answer,  "It'll  keep,  won't  it?  Get 
some  grub  and  a  good  sleep.  We'll  fix  the  rest  in  the 
morning." 

Eliphalet  suddenly  remembered  a  play  he  had  done  years 
and  years  before,  in  which  a  somewhat  similar  scene  oc- 
curred, in  which  he  had  said,  "Not  to-night,  my  brother. 
Your  body  needs  nourishment,  your  brain  needs  rest.  Go 
— take  what  my  poor  dwelling  has  to  offer.  Eat,  sleep,  and 
pray  to  Him  to  visit  your  dreams  with  peace." 

Probably  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  it  dawned  on  Eliph- 
alet Cardomay  that  this  kind  of  talk  was  bosh— stilted 
bosh.  People  didn't  say  things  like  that;  wherefore  it 
was  sheer  dishonesty  to  proclaim  such  stuff  to  an  audience. 

He  would  have  done  with  this  nonsense — he  would  rise 
superior  to  these  absurd  stage  conventions,  and  for  the 
future  devote  himself  solely  to  reproducing  the  actualities 


QUICKSANDS   OF   TRADITION     117 

of  life  and  the  actualities  of  speech.  And  having  arrived 
at  this  sensational  resolve,  Eliphalet  rose,  donned  a  dress- 
ing-gown and  seating  himself  at  the  little  davenport  desk 
by  the  window,  drew  pen  and  paper  towards  him. 

Finally  and  absolutely  he  had  made  up  his  mind  he 
would  "do"  "A  Man's  Way,"  and  then  and  there  he  wrote 
to  Mr.  Theodore  Lennard  and  said  that,  though  his  work 
had  made  a  distinctly  favourable  impression,  he  could  see 
no  prospects  immediate  or  otherwise  of  producing  the  play. 
Nevertheless  it  might  be  to  their  mutual  advantage  to 
meet  and  discuss  the  matter. 

This  done,  he  paddled  across  the  moonlit  street  in  gown 
and  carpet  slippers,  and  dropped  the  letter  into  the  pillar- 
box  at  the  corner,  and  it  was  not  until  he  heard  it  flutter- 
ing down  against  the  iron  sides  of  its  cage  that  the  first 
doubt  assailed  him. 

It  was  a  gentle  night  and  warm.  Fifty  yards  away  the 
iron  railings  of  the  esplanade  traced  black  lines  across 
the  luminous  sea. 

Eliphalet  forgot  his  unconventional  attire,  and  a  few 
moments  later  was  leaning  over  the  railings,  listening  to 
the  swish  and  rustle  of  the  pebbles  as  the  water  washed 
them  to  and  fro. 

"The  same  old  sea,"  he  thought,  "just  the  same  as  ever 
— unchangeable — from  Christ's  time  to  mine."  Then 
aloud,  and  with  startling  emphasis,  "Get  some  grub  and  a 
good  sleep — we  can  fix  the  rest  in  the  morning."  "I  don't 
know,"  said  Eliphalet,  "really  I  don't  know.  'Eat,  sleep 
and  pray  to  Him  to  visit  your  dreams  with  peace.' " 

Realism  and  Art — if  it  were  Art 

For  thirty  years  it  had  passed  for  Art  with  him — thirty 
unchangeable  years.  Did  reality  for  the  stage  actually 


n8  THE   OLD    CARD 

exist,  or  was  it  a  mere  modern  fetish?  Change — Futurism 
— Realism!  What  were  they  but  ugly  likenesses  of  nature 
— the  human  frame  with  all  its  bones  showing? 

The  moon  was  a  fairy  over  the  sea,  and  the  sea  a  play- 
ground for  the  moods  of  light — unchangeable,  unreal,  as  it 
was  in  the  beginning. 

"There  is  no  realism,"  mused  Eliphalet.  "It  plays  no 
part  in  our  spiritual  lives." 

Then  a  rubber-soled  policeman  came  down  the  espla- 
nade, and  spoke  harsh  words  regarding  folk  who  walked 
the  night  in  carpet-slippers  and  dressing-gowns.  He  in- 
stanced cases  where  heavy  penalties  had  been  awarded  for 
lesser  offences,  and  followed  Eliphalet  to  his  lodging  with 
flashing  bull's-eye  and  threatening  mien. 

"Yes— yes— yes,"  said  Eliphalet  testily.  "Very  sorry, 
and  if  you  are  not  satisfied,  come  round  and  we'll  fix  things 
up  in  the  morning." 

Slightly  distressed,  he  returned  to  bed.  It  was  surpris- 
ing he  should  have  used  the  word  "fix."  Curious  how  one 
adapts  oneself  to  a  change — even  of  vocabulary.  "A  Man's 
Way"  was  certainly  a  fine  play — realistic — human! 

Mr.  Theodore  Lennard  lived  at  Worthing  and  duly  re- 
ceived the  letter  on  the  following  morning.  A  young  man 
was  Mr.  Lennard,  shy  and  retiring  to  a  fault  but  gifted 
with  strong  faculties  for  literary  force.  He  could  make  his 
characters  express  themselves  most  vigorously — in  fact,  say 
things  which  he  himself,  under  similar  stresses  of  emotion, 
would  never  dare  to  utter.  He  wrote  easily,  frankly  and 
honestly,  and  he  loved  his  characters  and  envied  them  their 
vigour  and  lovable  qualities.  It  was  pitiful  to  reflect  that 
he,  with  his  knowledge  of  how  a  strong  man  should  act, 
should  be  as  pliable  as  a  reed  in  the  wind. 


Beyond  question  the  world  should  have  known  the  works 
of  Theodore  Lennard  long  before  this  story  was  written, 
and  the  reason  why  he  was  still  obscure  was  because  never 
before  had  he  had  the  courage  to  submit  any  of  his  writ- 
ings for  approval. 

This  was  his  first  experiment,  and  lo,  within  three  days 
of  posting  it,  came  a  letter  from  an  established  stage  per- 
sonality expressive  of  admiration. 

Mr.  Lennard  read  and  re-read  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  non- 
committal communication,  and  his  elation  knew  no  bounds. 
He  felt  he  had  been  discovered — a  stupendous  feeling. 
America  must  have  been  conscious  of  it  when  Christopher 
Columbus  hove  over  her  horizon. 

An  hour  and  a  half  later,  not  without  misgivings,  he 
presented  himself  at  the  stage-door  of  the  Theatre  Royal, 
Brighton.  Mr.  Cardomay,  he  was  informed,  was  not  within 
— he  was  probably  lunching  at  his  lodging.  A  request 
for  the  address  of  the  lodging  was  sternly  refused.  It 
is  an  unwritten  law  that  stage-doors  never  give  addresses, 
however  inconvenient  the  withholding  of  them  may  prove. 
He  would  do  well,  the  doorkeeper  advised,  to  call  again 
that  evening  after  the  performance. 

The  prospect  of  spending  several  hours  on  the  esplanade 
somewhat  depressed  Mr.  Lennard,  but  he  was  rescued  from 
such  an  unpleasant  necessity  by  the  opportune  arrival  of 
Freddie  Manning,  who  thrust  a  long  arm  through  the  lit- 
tle window  of  the  doorkeeper's  box  and  seized  a  handful  of 
miscellaneous  correspondence. 

Realising  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  man  of  importance, 
Mr.  Theodore  Lennard  coughed  discreetly. 

"Yes?"  said  Manning,  shuffling  the  letters  from  one  hand 
to  another. 


120  THE   OLD   CARD 

"I — Good  morning — afternoon — my  name  is — or  rather, 
I  was  hoping  to  see  Mr.  Cardomay." 

"What  about?" 

Mr.  Lennard  stuttered,  and  after  a  period  of  incoherence 
produced  Eliphalet's  note  and  handed  it  to  the  stage-mana- 
ger, who  read  it  through  and  frowned. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "Well,  the  Guv'nor's  busy  at  the  mo- 
ment. He's — er — working  on  a  play  we  shall  probably  be 
producing.  (This  was  pure  fiction,  or,  as  Manning  would 
have  said,  a  business  stroke.)  "If  you  come  round  to  15 
St.  James's  Place  at  4.30,  I'll  try  to  get  you  a  hearing. 
Morning."  And  tilting  his  hat  well  over  his  right  eye, 
Manning  hurried  off  in  the  direction  of  his  master's  abode. 
He  found  Eliphalet  at  lunch,  and  started  abruptly  with: 

"What's  this  business  about  Theodore  Lennard,  Guv'- 
nor?  You're  never  seriously  thinking  of  doing  that  play 
of  his — are  you?" 

Eliphalet  consumed  a  mouthful  of  Bartlett  Pear  anointed 
with  Bird's  Custard  before  replying: 

"When  I  wrote  to  him  last  night  I  firmly  intended  to 
do  so — but  this  morning  I  am  a  little  undecided." 

"The  author's  turned  up,  and  he's  coming  along  here  at 
4.30." 

"Dear  me!     Is  he  indeed?" 

"So  you'd  better  prepare  a  choke-off  right  away." 

Eliphalet  mused. 

"Why  should  I  choke  him  off,  Manning?  You  said 
yourself  it  was  a  good  play." 

"I  said  it  wasn't  too  bad,"  corrected  Manning  exactly. 
"Besides,  I  thought  you'd  fixed  on  the  Lyceum  piece." 

"Which  is  exactly  like  every  othe-  drama  we  have  ever 
produced." 


QUICKSANDS   OF   TRADITION     121 

"Well,  we're  exactly  like  all  the  other  characters  we've 
ever  played.  No  good  changing  our  play  if  we  can't  change 
ourselves  to  match  it." 

Eliphalet  looked  sad. 

"But  why  can't  we  change  ourselves?" 

Freddie  Manning  quoted  briefly  the  proverb  of  the 
leopard  and  the  Ethiopian. 

"You're  not  very  charitable  this  morning,  Manning." 

"This  is  a  business  talk." 

"Then  if  we  ourselves  are  immutable  we  must  change 
the  substance  of  the  play." 

"Or  cut  it  out  and  do  the  other." 

"But  'A  Man's  Way'  is  so  original,"  came  from  Elipha- 
let, with  a  plaintive  note. 

Freddie  stuck  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets. 

"Granted,"  he  began,  "but  it  don't  fit  us.  It  don't  fit 
us  anywhere.  Look  at  the  leading  part — a  smart  Harley 
Street  surgeon!  Ever  seen  a  Harley  Street  surgeon,  Guv- 
'nor?" 

"No,  but  I  could  go  to  Harley  Street,  and  for  two  gui- 
neas  " 

"It  'ud  cost  you  more  than  that  before  you'd  done. 
Why,  Guv'nor,  you'd  have  to  turn  yourself  inside  out.  You 
couldn't  wear  the  clothes — and  you  couldn't  play  the  part 
in  the  clothes  you  do  wear." 

The  old  actor's  hand  sought  his  flowing  tie  with  an  af- 
fectionate touch.  "There's  something  in  what  you  say, 
Manning." 

"There's  a  lot  in  it.  Bar  a  parson  or  a  Silver  King  fix- 
ture, you're  not  the  type  for  modern  parts.  Then,  again 
— would  you  cut  your  hair  short?  Not  youl" 


122  THE   OLD    CARD 

"No,"  said  Eliphalet.  "Such  as  I  am  I  have  always  been. 
I  should  certainly  decline  to  transfigure  myself." 

"There  you  are,  then!    Stick  to  the  old  stuff,  I  say." 

"But  I  have  a  yearning  for  the  new." 

Manning  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You're  the  boss,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  do  this  play,  Manning — very  much  indeed." 
Suddenly  he  rose  dramatically.  "Manning!"  he  exclaimed. 
"If  I  am  unsuited  to  the  role  of  a  Doctor  of  Medicine,  why 
not  alter  him  to  a  Doctor  of  Divinity?" 

"Mean  changing  the  whole  thing." 

"Well,  why  not,  and  what  of  it?" 

"Then  how  about  the  'Pauline'?"  said  Manning,  open- 
ing a  fresh  field  of  oppostion.  "None  of  our  girls  'ud  do, 
and  they're  all  on  long  contracts." 

"Miss  Monies." 

"Tss!  She's  ingenue — Sweet  Nancy — sun-bonnet  and 
long  strings.  She'd  never  get  away  with  that  cold-storage 
class  of  goods." 

Eliphalet  drew  patterns  on  the  table-cloth  with  a  long 
sensitive  forefinger. 

"It  should  not  be  difficult,"  he  hazarded,  "to  alter  her 
part  as  well." 

"If  the  author  consents?" 

"That  is  a  point  we  can  decide  at  half-past  four.  Please 
don't  throw  any  more  cold  water  on  the  scheme.  I  am 
really  anxious  to  be  associated  with  modern  thought,  and 
this  forceful  young  man  has  shown  me  the  way — 'A  Man's 
Way.' " 

At  precisely  four-twenty-nine  the  forceful  young  man  in 
question  was  ringing  the  bell  of  Number  15,  St.  James's 
Place,  and  as  the  skeleton  clock  on  the  half-landing  pro- 


QUICKSANDS   OF   TRADITION     123 

claimed  the  half-hour  he  was  ushered  into  Mr.  Cardomay's 
august  presence. 

If  Eliphalet  expected  to  see  in  Mr.  Lennard  a  pattern 
of  masculine  virility  he  was  grievously  mistaken.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  ineffective  or  retiring  than  the  young 
man's  demeanour. 

So  strange  is  the  working  of  the  human  mind  that  this 
outward  display  of  weakness  at  once  affected  Eliphalet's 
appreciation  of  "A  Man's  Way."  He  felt  that  it  was  im- 
possible that  originality  and  power  could  flow  from  such 
a  source.  Subconsciously  he  was  offended  that  that  high, 
narrow  forehead  and  the  thin,  nervous  hands  before  him 
could  have  produced  in  literature  such  vigorous  character- 
istics. 

And  while  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  brain 
Mr.  Theodore  Lennard  stuttered  out  his  apologies  and 
excuses  for  intruding. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Eliphalet.  "I  am  very  pleased  to  see 
you.  Sit  down,  and  we  will  have  some  tea." 

It  was  not  until  tea  had  come  and  gone  that  the  sub- 
ject of  the  play  was  broached.  Freddie  Manning  was  the 
one  to  introduce  it,  and  he  did  so  as  though  it  were  of 
secondary  interest  to  a  tooth  he  was  picking  with  the 
whisker  of  a  recently-devoured  prawn. 

"To  be  sure,"  echoed  Eliphalet.  "The  play!  Well,  Mr. 
Lennard,  we  have  read  it  and,  with  certain  reservations,  we 
like  it." 

"Think  it  not  too  bad,"  amended  Manning,  who  had 
broken  the  prawn's  whisker  at  a  critical  point  of  leverage 
and  was  naturally  put  out  about  it. 

Mr.  Lennard  smiled  from  one  to  the  other  to  show  his 
willingness  to  accept  praise  or  censure  with  equal  avidity. 


124  THE   OLD    CARD 

"Granted  certain  minor  alterations,"  pursued  Eliphalet, 
"we  might  even  be  prepared  to  put  the  piece  into  rehear- 
sal." 

"That's  most  awfully  good  of  you.  Very,  very  kind  in- 
deed," bleated  Mr.  Lennard. 

"I  imagine  this  is  your  first  play,"  and  scarcely  waiting 
for  the  nod  of  affirmation,  Eliphalet  went  on,  "and  that 
being  so,  you  understand  the  — er — remuneration  would  not 
be  large — would,  in  fact,  be — er — small." 

"Sort  of  honorarium,"  put  in  Manning,  "You'd  get  a 
royalty  or  a  sum  down  for  all  rights." 

"Whichever  you  prefer,"  interposed  Mr.  Lennard  hastily, 
although  not  half-an-hour  earlier  he  had  resolved  under  no 
circumstances  to  sell  out  his  interests  in  the  play. 

"It  is  of  course  difficult  to  get  a  first  play  produced  at 
all,"  said  Eliphalet,  "and  the  thirty  or  forty  pounds  ex- 
pended may  well  prove  money  thrown  away  for  the  man- 
ager." 

"I  see  that — I  quite  see  that."  (He  had  fixed  his  low- 
est price  at  one  hundred  down  and  20  per  cent,  royalty, 
but  such  is  the  elasticity  of  the  artistic  mind  that  these 
barriers  were  instantly  swept  away.) 

"Right,"  said  Manning.  "Then,  taking  for  granted  you 
carry  out  the  alterations  satisfactorily,  you  are  ready  to 
take  £30  to  cover  all  claims?" 

The  talented  author  hesitated. 

"Mr. — er — Cardomay  mentioned  forty." 

"Figure  of  speech,  that's  all." 

"No,  no,  Manning,  I  think  we  might  say  forty.  The 
extra  ten  payable  if  the  play  is  a  success." 

"That's  not  business,  Guv'nor." 


"But  it's  an  agreeable  suggestion,"  said  Mr.  Lennard, 
who  was  poor  as  well  as  honest. 

"It  would  be  a  more  agreeable  suggestion  if  you  paid 
back  the  thirty  if  the  play's  a  failure." 

Manning's  arguments  were  too  much  to  cope  with,  so 
the  author  subsided. 

"So  far  so  good,"  said  Eliphalet,  and  produced  the  man- 
uscript of  the  play.  "Now,  what  I  chiefly  want  you  to  do 
in  these  alterations  is  to  retain  the  present  spirit  of  the 
play  as  exactly  as  possible.  It  is  admirably  suited  to  the 
title,  and  the  title  pleases  me  greatly." 

Mr.  Lennard  looked  grateful  and  asked  what  was  re- 
quired of  him. 

"To  begin  with,  the  character  of  the  doctor  must  be 
changed  to  that  of  a  clergyman." 

"A  clergyman!" 

"Precisely.  I  don't  play  doctors,  but  I  can  and  do  play 
clergymen.  After  all,  in  a  healer  of  the  body  or  a  healer 
of  the  mind  there  is  no  great  difference." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Lennard  nervously,  "it's  rather — I 
mean — a  tall  order.  Aren't  some  of  the  lines  and — er — 
situations  slightly  unsuited  to  a  cleric?" 

"Change  'em,  then.  Make  'em  suitable.  That's  an 
author's  job,  ain't  it?"  demanded  Manning. 

"But  I  made  a  particular  study  of  a  Harley  Street  sur- 
geon in  the  character  of  Dr.  Wentall — a  most  careful  study, 
in  detail." 

"Well,  go  round  to  the  Vicarage  and  make  a  fresh  study 
there.  You've  got  a  fortnight." 

"Then,  again,  the  whole  scheme  of  the  play  would  be 
affected.  There  would  be  insuperable  difficulties  in  get- 
ting my  characters  on  and  off  the  stage.  As  patients  vis- 


126  THE   OLD   CARD 

iting  a  doctor  their  comings  and  goings  are  in  perfectly 
natural  sequence." 

"You  can  fix  that  all  right."  Manning  dismissed  such 
a  trivial  objection  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 

"And  now,"  said  Eliphalet  pleasantly,  "about  the  part 
of  the  wife,  Pauline?" 

"You  wouldn't  alter  her?  I — I  thought  she  was  rather 
good." 

"Admitted.  But  as  it  happens  we  have  a  young  lady 
in  our  present  company  who,  although  charming,  is  scarcely 
capable  of  realising  your  intentions  in  this  part." 

"But  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  engage  someone  who  was 
capable?"  suggested  Lennard. 

"That  would  be  rather  shirking  a  responsibility,  when 
it  would  be  easy  for  you  to  modify  and  simplify  the  emo- 
tions she  would  be  asked  to  portray." 

"I   don't   understand." 

"Look  here,  then,"  Manning  explained.  "Cut  out  all 
that  highly-strung,  neurotic  bosh  and  make  her  a  simple, 
loving  creature." 

"That's  it!  With  a  vein  of  sunshiny  humour."  And 
Eliphalet  leant  back  and  smiled. 

"But  how  am  I  to  adjust  the  quick,  ill-considered  actions 
of  Pauline,  as  I've  conceived  her,  to  the  type  of  character 
you  suggest?" 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide,  Mr.  Lennard.  We  are  here 
simply  to  reproduce  your  thoughts — not  to  inspire  them. 
All  I  ask  is  that  you  should  retain  the  present  spirit  of 
the  play." 

The  poor  author  looked  utterly  bewildered,  but  before 
he  had  recovered  his  powers  of  speech  in  came  Manning 
with  a  bombshell. 


QUICKSANDS    OF   TRADITION     127 

"And  now,"  he  detonated,  "comes  the  question  of  Comic 
Relief." 

"Ah!"  said  Eliphalet.  "I  had  quite  forgotten  the  Comic 
Relief." 

Theodore  Lennard  essayed  an  epigram. 

"I  have  seldom  found  it  comic,"  he  said,  "and  never  a 
relief." 

Both  his  hearers  frowned. 

"We  must  not  consider  only  ourselves  in  these  matters," 
said  Eliphalet  gravely.  "A  large  percentage  of  the  audi- 
ence rely  for  their  pleasure  exclusively  upon  this  branch 
of  the  entertainment." 

"But  I  can't  see  how  I'm  to  get  it  in  with  the  people  as 
IVe  written  them,  Mr.  Cardomay." 

"Then  write  some  more — we  have  quite  a  large  com- 
pany." 

"What  sort?" 

Eliphalet  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling. 

"A  good  deal  of  harmless  fun,"  he  said,  "can  be  ex- 
tracted from  highly-characterised  domestic  servants  of  op- 
posite sexes.  Their  mispronunciation  of  words,  their  little 
amours,  and  perhaps  some  good-natured  horseplay  among 
the  chairs  and  tables." 

"Are  you  serious,  sir?" 

"I  am  seriously  suggesting  a  vein  of  humour.  And  now, 
Mr.  Lennard,  if  you  will  consider  these  minor  alterations, 
I  trust  we  shall  come  to  an  arrangement  satisfactory  to  you 
and  to  myself." 

Mr.  Lennard  rose  and  fumbled  with  his  hat. 

"I — I'll  do  what  I  can,"  he  said.  Then,  with  unexpected 
courage,  "But  how  would  it  be  if  you  produced  the  play 
as  it  is?" 


128  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Look  here,  that's  hardly  playing  the  game,  o'  man," 
said  Manning.  "You  waste  an  hour  of  the  Guv'nor's  time, 
and  then  put  up  a  suggestion  like  that!" 

"Yes — yes — I  see.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Cardomay. 
I  apologise.  Good  afternoon,  and  thank  you  very,  very 
much." 

After  ten  days  the  second  version  of  "A  Man's  Way" 
was  delivered,  and  Eliphalet  started  to  read  it  in  great 
excitement.  When  he  had  finished,  he  was  possessed  with 
the  curious  conviction  that  he  was  mad.  Accordingly  he 
sent  for  Manning,  and  fluttered  round  while  the  stage- 
manager  snorted  through  the  manuscript. 

"Well,  Manning?" 

"It's  all  wrong.    Parsons  don't  act  like  that." 

Eliphalet  nodded.  "And  they  don't  talk  like  that,"  he 
added. 

Manning  whisked  over  some  pages.  "Look  at  this  bit, 
Guv'nor.  'Get  some  grub  and  a  good  sleep.'  "  (Odd  he 
should  have  chosen  that  line.)  "People  wouldn't  stick  it." 

"Yes,  yes — absurd!     He  should  be  soothing — inspired!" 

"Then,  again,  this  stage  direction:  'Takes  Pauline  by 
the  shoulders  and  pushes  her  through  the  French  window 
into  the  night,  saying,  "As  you  can't  be  mentally  cauter- 
ised, you'd  better  be  mentally  cooled."  '  " 

"Shocking!" 

"They'd  throw  things." 

"And,  curiously  enough,  in  the  first  version  I  thought 
that  scene  was  good.  He  has  made  a  mistake  in  keeping 
that  hard  note  in  the  character.  Besides,  now  that  the 
Pauline  has  been  sweetened,  there  is  no  longer  any  occa- 
sion for  such  drastic  measures.  And  the  Comic  Relief, 
Manning?" 


QUICKSANDS   OF   TRADITION     129 

"Horrible,  Guv'nor.    Out  of  place." 

"I  felt  the  same.    Send  Lennard  a  wire,  Manning." 

"Saying  it's  all  off?" 

"No,  no — but  I  want  to  talk  to  him." 

On  his  way  to  the  Post  Office,  Manning  almost  ran  into 
Theodore  Lennard,  who  had  followed  in  the  wake  of  his 
play.  The  stage-manager  buttonholed  him  at  once. 

"You've  fairly  done  it,"  he  opened  fire.  "Your  play's 
like  a  bit  of  bad  joinery  where  the  joints  don't  fit,  and 
rattle.  It's  a  hash,  old  man,  a  hash!" 

"But  what  I  cannot  understand,"  Eliphalet  was  saying 
five  minutes  later,  "is  how  you  could  put  such  words  into 
the  mouth  of  a  clergyman." 

"I  didn't,"  came  the  plaintive  reply.  "I  only  left  them 
in." 

"But  no  cleric  would  say  such  things." 

"Think  for  yourself — would  he,  o'  man?  'Mentally  cau- 
terised,' and  all  that  kind  of  stuff!  Bad  forml" 

"But  Mr.  Cardomay  expressly  asked  me  to  keep  the 
spirit  of  the  play." 

"You  took  me  too  literally,  Mr.  Lennard.  No  self-re- 
specting member  of  the  Church  would  turn  his  wife  out 
of  doors  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  He  would  wrestle 
with  her  mentally.  There  is  a  fine  chance  in  that  scene 
for  inspired  rhetoric.  Think!  Something  that  starts  gent- 
ly and  gradually,  crescendoes  as  the  wealth  of  this  theme 
reveals  itself.  Why,  it  comes  to  my  brain  as  easily  as 
if  the  trouble  were  my  own."  He  began  to  pace  up  and 
down,  saying,  "God  gave  you  into  my  keeping,  and  I  shall 
not  let  you  go.  For  the  sake  of  that  great  love  that  once 
was  ours — love  consecrated  by  holy  matrimony,  cemented 
by  the  hands  of  little  children — put  bebind  you  these 


130  THE   OLD   CARD 

dark  thoughts,  my  dear,  these  sinful,  useless  hopes.  Shun 
this  evil  phantom  that  rises  like  a — a — something — in  our 
path.  Bear  your  part  in  the  great  trust — the  trust  of  a 
wife  and  a  mother."  He  paused  dramatically. 

"That's  the  stuff,"  chipped  in  Freddie  Manning.  "And 
the  girl  finishes  up  by  crying  in  his  arms,  and  the  house 
shouts  itself  sick." 

"According  to  my  way  of  thinking,"  hazarded  Mr.  Len- 
nard  politely,  "no  woman  would  stop  in  the  room  if  her 
husband  talked  like  that." 

"Well,  there  you  are,"  said  Manning.  "That's  a  jolly 
good  way  of  getting  her  off — much  better  than  pitching  her 
through  the  window." 

"Let  us  approach  the  matter  rationally,"  suggested  Eli- 
phalet,  although  he  was  not  a  little  distressed  at  the  re- 
ception given  to  his  oratory.  "Having  gone  so  far,  I  am 
not  anxious  to  relinquish  the  play.  Even  if  only  on  ac- 
count of  the  title,  I  confess  I  am  drawn  towards  it.  I  sug- 
gest, Mr.  Lennard,  that  you  leave  the  manuscript  with 
me  to  work  upon.  It  would  save  much  fruitless  discussion. 
I  should  bring  to  bear  a  fresh  eye,  cultivated  to  observe  and 
remedy  the  existing  faults.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Just  as  you  please,"  said  the  young  man  hopelessly. 
"I  don't  suppose  I  should  ever  get  what  you  want." 

During  the  fortnight  in  which  Eliphalet  laboured  at  "A 
Man's  Way"  he  had  constant  resource  to  manuscripts  of 
old  plays  in  his  repertory,  most  particularly  to  one  called 
"The  Vespers,"  in  which  a  clergyman  and  his  wife  passed 
through  troubled  waters.  In  this  work  Right  throve  per- 
sistently, mainly  through  the  good  offices  of  much  Homeric 
matter  delivered  from  the  centre  of  the  stage  and  ethereal- 


QUICKSANDS    OF   TRADITION     131 

ised  by  the  influences  of  the  Spot  Lime  or  Red  Glow  from 
Fire. 

Eliphalet  was  not  an  author,  and  he  began  to  work  ten- 
tatively. But  after  a  while  he  found  that  to  give  any  real 
tone  value  to  the  scenes  and  characters  it  was  necessary 
to  carry  out  very  extensive  alterations.  It  is  possible  to 
keep  gold-fish  in  an  aviary.  In  certain  elements  only  a 
certain  class  of  life  can  exist.  Influences  in  one  breath  to 
say  "Chuck  it  and  clear  out"  in  the  next.  Wherefore,  for 
every  line  Eliphalet  altered  there  arose  an  immediate  obli- 
gation to  alter  a  hundred  succeeding  lines.  And  this  duty, 
with  the  aid  of  his  reference  library,  i.e.,  the  Repertory 
Plays,  he  most  conscientiously  performed. 

But,  alas!  with  the  change  of  text  came  a  fresh  trouble. 
Situations  had  to  be  re-constructed  to  fit  the  new  psychol- 
ogy. Nothing  daunted,  Eliphalet  dipped  afresh  into  his 
old  lore,  and  emerged  with  stilted  and  stereotyped  scenes 
which  he  faithfully  paraphrased  and  transplanted. 

And  the  finished  article  bore  about  as  much  resemblance 
to  "A  Man's  Way"  as  a  cow  to  a  nightingale. 

Poor  Eliphalet  Cardomay!  The  quicksands  of  tradition 
would  not  let  him  go. 

"Yes,"  said  Freddie  Manning,  "it's  more  like  our  usual 
stuff  now."  He  took  out  a  cigarette,  which  he  licked 
thoughtfully  before  lighting  "But  I  was  thinking " 

"What?"  said  Eliphalet. 

"Hasn't  it  struck  you,  Guv'nor,  that  the  title  'A  Man's 
Way,'  doesn't  fit  any  longer?" 

Eliphalet  looked  quite  scared. 

"But  I  like  the  title  enormously.  It's  so  original — er— v 
modem." 

"But  it  don't  belong,  Guv'nor.    It  gives  the  wrong  idea," 


132  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Ye-es,  I  see  what  you  mean.  With  this  more  ascetic 
character,  eh?" 

"Exactly."  He  rubbed  his  nose  productively.  "  'A  Man's 
Prayer'  would  be  better,"  he  hazarded. 

Eliphalet  thought  it  over  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,  it  ain't  good.    How  about  'The  Great  Trust?' " 

"Sounds  a  shade  American,  Manning." 

"It  does." 

Eliphalet  struck  the  table.  "I  have  it,"  he  said.  "  'His 
Prayer.' " 

"That's  the  note!" 

"Then  let  Lennard  know  we  have  decided  to  call  it 
that.  And  you  might  take  back  some  of  these  to  the  thea- 
tre." He  indicated  the  pile  of  plays  on  his  table  from 
which  his  alterations  had  been  quarried. 

Freddie  Manning  carried  off  these  veterans  of  the  Road, 
and  having  nothing  better  to  do  for  an  hour  he  perused 
the  four  acts  of  "The  Vespers"  and  became  pregnant  of 
an  idea.  He  said  nothing  about  it  at  the  theatre  that 
night,  but  the  following  morning,  when,  faithful  to  his 
usual  routine,  he  paid  his  eleven  o'clock  call  on  his  master, 
he  had  every  intention  of  doing  so. 

In  the  meanwhile  Eliphalet  had  passed  a  troubled  night. 
Dispassionately  and  clear-headedly  he  had  been  through 
"His  Prayer"  (late  "A  Man's  Way")  and  had  given  it 
deep  thought. 

He  had  chosen  this  work  because  he  believed  it  would  lift 
him  from  the  Old  School  and  place  him  among  the  mod- 
erns, and  lo!  it  was  even  as  all  his  other  plays.  He  had 
been  deceived.  There  was  not  a  spark  of  originality  in 
it.  It  was  set  and  stereotyped,  lifeless  and  dull. 


QUICKSANDS   OF   TRADITION     133 

"Why,  why  did  I  ever  believe  in  the  thing?"  recurred 
over  and  over  again  in  his  mind. 

So  before  Manning  had  a  chance  to  speak  a  word,  he 
was  saying: 

"I  have  made  a  most  grievous  error  in  the  matter  of 
'A  Man's  Way.'  It's  no  good,  Manning — no  good  at  all, 
and  I  cannot  conceive  how  I  ever  thought  it  was." 

"We  are  all  liable  to  mistakes,  Guv'nor." 

Eliphalet  shook  his  head.  "Perhaps  I  am  getting  old," 
he  said,  "and  losing  my  sense  of  good  and  ill.  Why,  even 
with  the  alterations  I  have  so  laboriously  contrived,  it 
does  not  compare  with  the  poorest  play  in  our  repertoire." 

Manning  slapped  his  hat  on  the  table. 

"Guv'nor,"  he  said,  "that's  what  I'm  here  to  say.  It 
all  comes  of  trying  to  get  off  our  own  railway  system. 
Now  what's  wrong  with  doing  'The  Vespers'  instead?" 

"  Ton  my  soul,"  said  Eliphalet,  "I  believe  it  would  bear 
reviving." 

"It  would — and  not  a  cent  to  pay,  either." 

Eliphalet  leant  back  and  rubbed  his  fingers  together. 

"  'The  Vespers?'  "  he  spoke  the  title  lovingly.  "Why, 
Manning,  it  must  be  twenty  years  since  I  played  'The 
Vespers.'  Ah,  Manning,  they  knew  how  to  write — those 
old  'uns.  They  had  poetry,  understanding.  This  ultra- 
modern business  is  all  wrong,  Manning,  all  wrong." 

"It's  all  wrong  for  us,  Guv'nor."  He  did  not  overstress 
the  "us,"  but  it  had  a  meaning  which  Eliphalet  was  not 
slow  to  perceive. 

"Let  the  cobbler  stick  to  his  last,"  he  said. 

Manning  rose  abruptly. 

"Well,  I'll  send  Lennard  a  letter  and  return  the  script." 

"No,"  said  Eliphalet,  "I'll  do  that." 


134  THE   OLD   CARD 

Manning  eyed  him  doubtfully. 

"You  are  under  no  obligation  to  pay  him  anything,  Guv'- 
nor." 

"No — no — no.    Of  course  not." 

But  nevertheless  there  was  a  cheque  for  forty  pounds 
in  the  letter  he  posted  Perhaps  subconsciously,  he  was 
paying  for  a  lesson  and  not  for  a  play. 

It  was  the  Eliphalet  touch.  He,  too,  had  had  his  dis- 
appointments, and  maybe,  this  was  one  of  them.  No  man 
should  raise  hopes  and  dash  them  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  VII 

GAS    WORKS 

effects  of  international  politics  are  far-reaching. 
A  But  for  them  Eliphalet  Cardomay  would  certainly 
have  produced  "The  Vespers."  The  declaration  of  peace 
in  South  Africa  was  the  direct  cause  of  his  abandoning  the 
project.  A  wave  of  patriotism  seized  him,  and  on  its 
impulse  he  purchased  the  touring  rights  of  a  great  military 
melodrama,  entitled  "The  Flag,"  which  had  been  accorded 
considerable  success  in  a  London  theatre. 

In  this  play  he  figured  as  a  dashing,  if  rather  improbable 
Colonel,  whose  courage  was  to  be  relied  upon  in  any  ex- 
tremity. The  extremities  were  many  and  dire,  but  never 
failed  to  find  our  hero  alert,  sententious,  resourceful  and 
with  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  cigarettes. 

Truth  to  tell,  the  part  was  not  eminently  suited,  either 
to  his  personality  or  method.  Colonels  do  not,  as  a  rule, 
wear  much  hair  upon  the  temples  or  nape  of  the  neck, 
nor  do  they  engage  unduly  in  gesture  or  vocalisation.  Eli- 
phalet, on  the  other  hand,  did  all  these  things — declining 
to  sacrifice  his  established  traditions  on  the  shrine  of  con- 
vention. His  "Colonel,"  therefore,  was  an  indifferent  im- 
personation less  like  unto  a  soldier  than  unto  Van  Biene  in 
"The  Broken  Melody." 

In  the  last  scene  of  the  play  there  was  a  great  "to  do"; 
nothing  less,  in  short,  than  a  bombardment  and  assault 

i35 


136  THE   OLD   CARD 

upon  the  Consulate  which  the  Colonel  and  his  brave  fol- 
lowers were  defending.  With  heavy  odds  against  them, 
these  gallant  few  contrived  to  hold  out  until  the  opportune 
arrival  of  a  rescue-party  headed  by  the  Colonel's  young  and 
lovely  daughter,  and  heralded  by  a  fife-and-drum  band. 

While  the  bombardment  was  in  progress  the  Colonel 
and  a  faithful  orderly  had  the  stage  to  themselves.  The 
courageous  soldier  spent  his  time  between  an  open  ciga- 
rette-box and  an  open  window,  from  which  latter  vantage 
he  was  able  to  control  the  movements  of  his  troops,  and 
supply  the  audience  with  details  of  the  attack. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  had  been  at  great  pains  to  make 
the  sounds  of  the  battle  convincing  He  had  bought  large 
drums  and  employed  extra  hands  to  beat  the  stage  with 
canes.  As  a  final  tour  de  force  half  a  dozen  squibs  were 
let  off,  a  single  maroon  was  exploded  in  an  iron  bucket,  and 
red  fire  was  burnt  with  liberality  in  an  adjacent  frying-pan. 

It  was  a  stirring  entertainment.  Eliphalet  felt  he  was 
Upholding  the  best  traditions  of  the  race  and  drama. 

During  the  second  week  of  the  tour  his  satisfaction  re- 
ceived a  shock. 

He  was  staying  at  an  hotel,  the  rooms  in  that  particu- 
lar town  being  indifferent  and  unclean,  and  had  returned 
thither  after  the  performance  to  sip  a  cup  of  cocoa  and 
smoke  a  small  cigar  before  retiring  to  rest.  He  had  found 
a  secluded  palm-sheltered  recess  in  the  lounge,  and,  at  the 
time  the  shock  occurred,  was  reflecting  that  he  had,  per- 
haps, allowed  himself  too  free  an  expression  of  criticism 
when  discussing  with  the  theatre  manager  the  matter  of 
exits  from  the  auditorium. 

His  own  production  was  a  heavy  one,  and  to  give  it 
stage  room  the  manager  had  moved  a  quantity  of  stock 


GAS   WORKS  137 

scenery  and  stored  it  in  the  two  emergency  corridors  which, 
in  case  of  necessity,  would  empty  the  theatre  into  a  nar- 
row thoroughfare  at  the  back.  Eliphalet  did  not  approve 
of  this  measure  and  had  quoted  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
rules  in  support.  Mr.  Gimball,  the  manager,  had  replied, 
with  singular  lack  of  courtesy,  that  he  was  quite  capable 
of  running  the  front  of  the  house  without  interference.  To 
this  Eliphalet  answered,  "Your  first  duty  to  your  patrons 
is  to  provide  them  with  a  speedy  means  of  leaving  the 
auditorium." 

And  Mr.  Gimball  returned: 

"I  can  get  them  out  all  right  if  you  can  get  them  in." 

An  uncalled-for  observation,  the  memory  of  which 
rankled.  Eliphalet  did  not  aspire  to  be  a  master  of  rep- 
artee, and  had  not  engaged  in  the  discussion  with  a  view 
to  sharpening  his  wits.  It  seemed  obvious  every  precau- 
tion should  be  taken,  especially  in  the  case  of  a  theatre 
situated  next-door  to  a  small-arms  and  cartridge-making 
factory  and  abutting  the  local  gas-works. 

Thus  it  is  not  unnatural  that,  in  the  shade  of  the  hotel 
palms,  he  should  have  sought  for  more  quieting  influences. 
He  was  sipping  the  cocoa,  when  he  chanced  to  overhear  the 
following  conversation: 

"I  shan't  forgive  you  for  this,  Bryan,  when  we  might 
have  spent  a  pleasant  evening  at  a  music-hall." 

"Sorry,"  said  an  older  voice,  "but  after  all  it  wasn't 
such  a  bad  show.  Certainly  the  battle  scene  was  a  bit 
indifferent — still,  one  can't  expect  everything." 

"A  bit  indifferent  I  It  was  deplorable.  But,  apart  from 
that,  the  way  that  old  actor,  what's  his  name,  played  the 
part  of  the  Colonel  was  enough  to  drive  a  man  to  drink. 
Going  about,  smiling,  cracking  jests,  and  lighting  ciga- 


138  THE   OLD   CARD 

rettes!  I've  been  through  a  decent  few  shows — Dundee, 
Barterton,  and  some  others  that  were  pretty  warm,  too— 
and  I  can  tell  you,  people  don't  behave  like  that  under 
shell-fire — they've  too  much  to  think  about  to  play  the 
mountebank.  Carry  on  with  the  work  and  show  decent 
pluck— yes.  But  behave  like  that  old  idiot — no,  no!" 

"You're  blase  with  too  much  of  the  real  thing,  my  dear 
Raeburn.  Let's  have  a  drink  and  talk  about  something 
else." 

But  the  South  African  warrior  was  not  to  be  denied. 
He  had  things  to  say,  and  meant  to  say  them. 

"Half  the  time,"  he  continued,  ignoring  the  interruption, 
"these  actor- Johnnies  don't  know  what  they're  doing.  A 
slack,  idle  crowd,  lolling  over  a  bar  by  day  and  messing  up 
their  faces  with  grease-paint  by  night.  They've  no  experi- 
ence of  life,  or  death,  or  danger,  and  wouldn't  know  how  to 
cope  with  it  if  they  had.  They're  gas-works,  that's  all. 
Lord,  it  makes  me  sick  to  see  a  man  attitudinising  and  throw- 
ing the  heroic  pose,  when  if  it  came  to  a  pinch  he'd  take 
to  his  heels  at  the  sight  of  a  runaway  horse  half-a-mile 
away." 

"That  statement,"  said  Eliphalet  Cardomay,  rising  and 
approaching  the  two  gentlemen,  "is  offensive  and  unjust." 

The  man  who  had  been  speaking,  a  broad-shouldered, 
well-built  fellow  of  middle  age,  spun  round  in  his  chair, 
and  eyed  the  newcomer  with  disfavour. 

"I'm  not  aware  we  invited  you  to  join  our  conversation," 
he  said. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  acknowledged  the  thrust  with  a 
fencer's  gesture. 

"True;  but  I  feel  justified  in  upholding  the  honour  of 


GAS   WORKS  139 

my  profession,  as  doubtless  you  would  feel  for  any  person 
or  ideal  you  may  happen  to  cherish." 

Captain  Raeburn  cocked  his  head  at  a  somewhat  insolent 
angle. 

"Come  on,  then,  draw  up  a  chair  and  let's  have  it  out. 
It  would  simplify  matters  to  exchange  names.  Mine  is 
Raeburn — Captain  Raeburn — and  this  is  Mr.  Bryan." 

The  old  actor  bowed  ceremoniously  to  each  in  turn. 

"And  mine,"  he  said,  "is  Eliphalet  Cardomay." 

By  the  expression  of  surprise  on  their  faces  it  was  clear, 
until  this  moment,  they  had  failed  to  recognise  in  him 
the  gallant  Colonel  of  an  hour  before. 

"Is  it,  begad?"  said  Raeburn.  "Then  our  conversation 
must  have  been  devilish  unpleasant  overhearing."  He  of- 
fered no  apology,  however. 

Eliphalet  shrugged  his  shoulders  and,  dividing  the  tails 
of  his  long,  old-fashioned  frock-coat,  sat  down  at  the  small 
table. 

Mr.  Bryan  was  of  more  sensitive  metal  than  his  compan- 
ion, and  felt  the  need  to  smooth  some  of  the  creases  from 
the  situation. 

"Raeburn,"  he  said,  with  a  conciliatory  laugh,  "says  a 
good  deal  he  doesn't  mean.  You  know  what  it  is!  Per- 
sonally, I  am  sorry  you  should  have  overheard  his  crit- 
icisms— very  sorry  indeed." 

"I  am  glad  I  did,"  was  the  response,  "for  it  gives  me 
the  chance  of  refuting  them.  It  is  not  very  agreeable  for 
us  to  have  people  saying  in  public  that  we  lack  the  essen- 
tial elements  of  courage." 

"Well,  well,  well!"  said  Raeburn  with  brusque  hearti- 
ness, "a  word  spoken  is  a  bullet  fired.  No  use  pretending 
you  didn't  touch  the  trigger,  eh?" 


140  THE   OLD    CARD 

"But  is  it  not  unwise  to  tamper  with  firearms  when  you 
are  not  acquainted  with  their  mechanism?" 

Raeburn  coloured  a  trifle  and  remarked,  "That's  hardly 
applicable  to  me,  Mr.  Cardomay." 

"I  was  merely  enlarging  a  metaphor  you  introduced." 

"Ah — I  see.  Yes.  But  how  about  a  drink  before  we 
start?  You  won't  refuse  a  whisky,  eh?" 

"You  may  find  it  hard  to  believe,  but  I  shall  refuse; 
for  oddly  enough,  and  at  the  risk  of  destroying  one  of  your 
illusions,  I  do  not  drink  alcohol." 

"Ha!    Well,  that's  a  score  to  you." 

"I  wish  I  could  shatter  other  beliefs  as  easily.  You  said 
we  of  the  stage  have  no  real  experience  of  life,  death  and 
danger,  and  could  not  cope  with  it  if  we  had." 

"I  did." 

"I,  on  the  other  hand,  maintain  that  we  have  a  greater 
experience  than  almost  any  other  class.  We  must  know 
what  to  do  for  every  occasion,  for  otherwise  we  would  need 
at  once  to  seek  a  fresh  means  of  livelihood — or  starve. 
We  live  amidst  a  turmoil  of  ever-changing  emotions " 

•"Acted  emotions  I" 

"But  very  real  to  us.  What  we  depict  is  merely  what 
we  have  known  or  seen  or  felt.  All  our  lives  we  are  mov- 
ing in  different  scenes  and  different  places — we  are  rub- 
bing shoulders  week  by  week  with  different  men,  different 
women,  and  human  events,  both  great  and  small,  which 
even  you,  with  your  battle-field  experiences,  would  find  it 
hard  to  outrival." 

Raeburn  made  no  reply,  but  the  angle  of  his  nostrils 
was  distinctly  sceptical. 

"Yes,  all  the  time  we  are  drawing  our  experiences — learn- 
ing our  lesson  from  the  book  of  life.  A  child  pricks  its 


GAS   WORKS  141 

finger — and  we  can  study  from  the  child's  mother  the 
measure  of  sympathy  she  offers  for  so  small  a  sorrow,  yes, 
and  deduce  therefrom  how  great  her  sympathy  and  concern 
would  be  if  the  pricked  finger  were,  instead,  a  mortal 
malady.  There  is  no  happening  too  small  to  be  of  use  to 
us,  to  help  us  with  our  lesson;  and  every  hour  of  the  day 
or  night  we  are  piecing  together  the  minute  mosaic  which 
goes  to  fashion  the  broad  patterns  of  our  art." 

"H'm!  That's  all  very  nice  and  very  interesting,  but 
forgive  me  if  I  don't  exactly  see  what  it's  leading  up  to." 

"Merely  this:  that  from  the  lesson  we  have  learnt,  we, 
of  all  people,  are  to  be  relied  upon  to  do  the  right  thing 
in  any  emergency." 

Captain  Raeburn  found  the  loophole  he  had  been  seek- 
ing, and  fired  his  shaft  unceremoniously. 

"Then  why,  my  dear  sir,  play  that  last  scene  in  'The 
Flag'  in  the  manner  you  do?  Surely  you  don't  imagine 
a  Colonel  would  really  behave  like  that  under  similar  con- 
ditions?" 

"Although  I  have  never  been  in  a  battle,  I  can  see  no 
reason  against  his  doing  so." 

"You  can  take  it  from  me  that  he  wouldn't." 

"At  the  risk  of  appearing  disputatious,  I  contend,  if  it 
were  his  wish  to  allay  a  spirit  of  panic,  that  is  precisely 
the  way  he  would  set  about  it." 

"Why,  the  men  would  laugh  at  him." 

"In  which  case  he  would  have  achieved  his  object." 

"Well,  well,  well!  You  could  talk  from  now  to  dooms- 
day and  not  convince  me." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Eliphalet,  rising.  "It  was  good 
of  you  to  hear  me  so  patiently.  Good  night."  He  hesi- 
tated. "I  was  wondering — you  fought  in  South  Africa?" 


142  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Yes,  all  through  the  campaign." 

"And  have  heard  and  seen  many  stiff  engagements?" 
Raeburn  nodded.  "You  were  commenting  unfavourably 
upon  the  effects  of  the  battle  that  I  introduce  in  the  play." 

Captain  Raeburn  produced  a  cigar  and  lit  it.  "  'Fraid 
I  was,"  he  agreed. 

"Would  it  be  asking  too  much  from  you  to — to  explain 
in  what  direction  our  effects  differ  from  the  reality?" 

"That's  an  awkward  question  to  answer." 

"Meaning  we  are  entirely  at  fault?" 

"Something  of  the  kind." 

Eliphalet  sat  down  again  and  looked  worried.  "That's 
a  pity,"  he  said.  "A  great  pity.  I  should  like  to  have 
it  right.  Perhaps,  if  you — er " 

Raeburn  spread  out  his  legs.  It  was  evident  he  rather 
enjoyed  this  tribute  to  his  professional  skill. 

"Certainly,  I  will.  Now,  let's  see.  These  rebels  are 
at  the  gate,  aren't  they?  A  few  shots  are  fired — an- 
swered by  rifle-fire  from  the  defenders.  That  'ud  want 
organising  to  a  certain  extent.  There'd  be  time  in  it — 
they're  trained  troops — see?  Probably  a  machine-gun 
would  open  up  somewhere." 

Eliphalet  had  begun  to  take  notes  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope. 

"A  machine-gun — very  good,"  he  said.  "Now,  how 
w»uld  that  sound?" 

Raeburn  tapped  his  forefinger  in  a  metrical  beat  upon 
the  table. 

"I  see,  I  see.    Please  continue." 

"Isn't  there  some  talk  about  the  rebels  bringing  up 
artillery?" 

"Yes;  they  open  fire  on  the  consulate." 


GAS   WORKS  143 

"Ah,  that  was  where  you  were  all  over  the  place.  First, 
you  want  a  low,  distant  report,  then  a  whistle — SShhreeee 
— e — u — u — cr — umpp.  Something  like  that  they  go." 

"Very  effective!     This  is  most  valuable." 

Under  the  subtle  influence  of  appreciation  the  warrior 
developed  his  theme  and  gave  many  graphic  illustrations 
of  the  din  of  battle,  each  of  which  the  stage  mind  of  Eliph- 
alet  Cardomay  rapidly  translated  to  the  possible  resources  of 
the  property-room. 

"Finally,  when  the  rebels  blow  up  the  gate  you  want  a 
noise — a  real  noise.  That  twopenny  maroon  you  explode 
wouldn't  lift  a  wicket  off  a  nursery  door." 

"And  I  thought  that  effect  was  fairly  good,"  said  Eliph- 
alet  plaintively. 

"I  can  only  tell  you  it  made  me  laugh." 

"We  must  change  it,  then — it  must  be  changed  at  once. 
I  pride  myself  on  presenting  nothing  but  the  best  to  my 
audience.  Many  thanks,  Captain  Raeburn;  you  have 
rendered  me  a  great  service.  I  shall  rehearse  the  battle- 
scene  very  thoroughly  and  utilise  all  your  valuable  sug- 
gestions. If  you  and  your  friend  would  honour  me  by  ac- 
cepting a  box  for  Friday  night's  performance,  I  think  I 
can  promise  you  a  reflection  of  the  real  thing." 

Probably  Mr.  Bryan  realised  that  Raeburn  would  drop 
a  brick,  so  without  giving  him  time  to  refuse  he  gracefully 
accepted  the  invitation  on  behalf  of  both.  And  when 
Eliphalet  had  wished  them  "Good  night"  and  departed, 
he  said: 

"We'd  insulted  him  quite  enough,  my  dear  fellow;  we 
should  have  been  inexcusably  rude  to  have  said  'No.' " 

"A  silly  old  gas-bag,"  smiled  Raeburn.  "We'll  go,  then. 
Anything  for  a  laugh." 


144  THE   OLD   CARD 

Next  day,  and  the  one  following,  Eliphalet  Cardomay  and 
his  stage-manager,  Freddie  Manning,  worked  at  the  battle- 
scene  like  grim  death.  The  artillery  practice  achieved  with 
drums  of  different  notes  and  a  develine  whistle  was  a 
triumph  of  realism.  A  stern  suggestion  of  machine  gun- 
nery was  contrived  by  the  use  of  an  archaic  police  rattle, 
opportunely  unearthed  from  a  neighbouring  junk  shop.  For 
the  mining  of  the  gate  a  large  cistern  was  salvaged  from  a 
rubbish-heap  and  two  maroons  were  placed  inside  and  fired 
simultaneously. 

"Manning,"  exclaimed  Eliphalet  gleefully,  "it  is  tre- 
mendous! Now,  just  once  more,  and  we'll  leave  it  at  that." 

On  his  way  back  to  the  hotel  he  chanced  to  meet  Cap- 
tain Raeburn,  who  was  swinging  a  cane  in  Broaden  Street. 

"We  shall  surprise  you  to-night,"  he  said,  by  way  of 
greeting,  and  passed  on,  chuckling. 

The  Grand  Theatre,  Wadley,  was  situated  at  the  top 
end  of  a  short  blind  road,  standing  back  from  Broaden 
Street.  The  stage-door  and  emergency  exits,  which,  it  will 
be  remembered,  were  blocked  with  scenery,  opened  on  a 
narrow  thoroughfare  at  the  back. 

Approaching  the  box-office,  one  passed  Messrs.  Felder  & 
Syme's  Small  Arms  and  Cartridge  factory.  Behind  them, 
and  separated  only  by  a  ten-foot  wall,  one  of  the  many 
urban  gasometers  rose  and  fell  in  response  to  the  city's  con- 
sumption. 

Friday  night  in  Wadley  was  always  the  best  for  business. 
It  was  then  the  "good  people"  patronised  the  drama,  and 
Mr.  Gimball,  the  manager,  was  wont  to  make  special  ef- 
forts for  their  better  comfort.  On  Friday  there  were  extra 
members  in  the  orchestra.  On  Friday  there  was  red  cloth  on 
the  front  steps.  On  Friday  all  the  electric  light  points 


GAS   WORKS  145 

burnt  gaily  in  the  big  lustre  chandelier  above  the  audi- 
torium, and  woe  betide  the  programme-girl  that  failed  to 
appear  in  her  whitest  and  newest  apron  upon  that  night  of 
nights. 

When  the  returns  were  brought  to  Eliphalet  Cardomay  at 
the  close  of  the  second  act,  he  was  agreeably  pleased. 

"We've  a  fine  audience  for  our  new  battle,"  he  observed, 
"and  the  play  is  going  well." 

Captain  Raeburn  sat  back  in  his  box,  the  picture  of  mis- 
ery. 

"Look  here,"  he  remonstrated,  "that  fellow  Cardomay  is 
awful.  How  about  slipping  quietly  away?" 

But  Mr.  Bryan  would  not  hear  of  it. 

In  the  Small  Arms  factory  next  door  the  night-watchman 
was  making  himself  comfortable  against  his  vigil.  By  means 
of  a  pile  of  straw-filled  cases  he  constructed  an  easy-chair. 
The  light  of  the  small  caged  gas-jet  being  insufficient  to 
illuminate  his  Late  Football  Extra,  he  produced  from  his 
pocket  a  stump  of  candle  and  waxed  it  to  the  top  of  one 
of  the  cases.  This  done,  he  ensconced  himself  luxuriously, 
spread  out  the  paper,  and  settled  down  for  a  "nice  read." 

Meanwhile  the  third  act  of  "The  Flag"  proceeded.  Ed- 
dies of  rebellion  were  already  lapping  against  the  walls  of 
the  consulate.  The  Colonel's  daughter,  disguised  as  a  gipsy, 
had  dropped  from  the  walls  and  was  away  in  search  of  aid 
— and  the  audience  had  begun  to  realise  that  in  the  next  act 
there  would  be  trouble,  with  a  capital  "T."  They  were 
right. 

The  print  of  the  halfpenny  Football  Edition,  held  in  the 
hands  of  the  night-watchman,  began  to  blur.  Delicious 
little  thrills  of  fatigue  pulsed  through  his  limbs.  He  re- 
flected how  foolish  he  had  been  never  before  to  have  dis- 


146  THE   OLD    CARD 

posed  himself  so  comfortably.  Also  he  reflected  how  good 
that  pint  of  dinner  ale  had  been,  partaken  before  coming 
on  duty.  Odd  thing  he  had  never  drunk  of  dinner  ale 
before!  In  the  future  he  would  remedy  that  omission — 
a  rounder,  mellower  and  more  palatable  beverage  would  be 
hard  to  conceive.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  allowed  his  imag- 
ination to  picture  the  big  glass  tankard  and  the  burnt  Si- 
enna distillation  it  had  contained.  He  tried  to  open  them 
again  but  they  revolted  against  the  impulse. 
"Aft'  all,"  he  muttered,  "aft'  all— wha's  it  marrer?" 
The  paper  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  dropped  to  the 
top  of  the  case  beside  the  candle.  His  hand  made  a  lum- 
bering, futile  gesture  to  regain  it,  then  fell  to  his  knee  and 
skidded  off  inertly.  His  head  rolled  a  trifle,  lurched  for- 
ward and  his  body  went  limp.  Then  came  the  heavy  regu- 
lar purr  of  a  man  breathing. 

A  capricious  draught  slanted  the  flame  of  the  candle  until 
it  gently  touched  the  corner  of  the  newspaper.  Being  damp, 
the  paper  burnt  slowly  and  only  in  one  direction.  Finally 
it  went  out,  but  not  before  setting  light  to  an  enthusiastic 
wisp  of  straw.  The  straw  realised  at  once  what  was  re- 
quired, and  passed  the  dancing  yellow  flame  along  the  ridge 
of  the  line  of  overflowing  cases.  The  lids  of  the  cases  were 
screwed  down  and  the  heat  generated  from  the  burning 
wisps  of  protruding  straw  was  insufficient  to  ignite  them. 
This  was  very  disappointing,  for  very  soon  the  straw  had 
burnt  out  and,  but  for  one  insignificant  circumstance,  a 
very  enjoyable  fire  would  have  been  lost  to  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  circumstance  in  question  was  provided  by  a 
stump  of  pencil  which  hung  on  a  string  from  a  notice-board. 
A  final  spurt  of  flame  from  the  last  tuft  of  straw  ignited 
the  little  piece  of  cedar-wood,  which — nothing  if  not  com- 


GAS   WORKS  147 

municative — promptly  conveyed  its  sorrow  to  the  string 
supporting  it.  The  string  burnt  through  and  the  flaming 
pencil  dropped  to  the  floor  upon  a  little  heap  of  paper  and 
rubbish.  In  these  sympathetic  surroundings  it  received 
every  encouragement,  and  in  very  little  time  the  whole  pile 
was  blazing  merrily.  A  chance  puff  of  wind  from  an  open 
doorway  scattered  fragments  in  three  directions,  in  each  of 
which  a  cheerful  fire  resulted. 

The  packing-room,  a  few  feet  down  the  passage,  where 
stacks  of  empty  cartridge-boxes  were  stored,  was,  perhaps, 
the  most  successful;  although,  considering  the  non-inflam- 
mable nature  of  much  of  its  contents,  the  small  recess  be- 
neath the  wooden  staircase  competed  very  creditably.  The 
third  fire  was  insignificant,  confining  itself  to  the  crema- 
tion of  a  row  of  overalls  hanging  on  a  line  of  hooks. 

When  the  night-watchman  woke,  he  found  himself  con- 
fronted with  a  task  beyond  the  reaches  of  his  capacity.  His 
rush  to  the  fire  rack  resulted  in  oversetting  two  buckets  of 
water,  and  the  flames,  laughing  at  his  failure,  tore  down  the 
ceiling  of  the  packing-room  and  mounted  gleefully  to  the 
story  above. 

The  curtain  had  just  risen  on  the  last  act  when  Mr.  Gim- 
ball  burst  through  the  iron  door  and  almost  fell  upon  Eli- 
phalet  Cardomay,  waiting  in  the  wings. 

"The  cartridge  factory  next  door  is  ablaze,"  he  gasped, 
"and  the  sparks  are  pouring  down  by  the  box-office.  Drop 
the  iron  curtain  and  we'll  get  the  audience  out." 

"At  once!"  assented  Cardomay.  "But  wait  a  moment — 
if  the  stuff  is  falling  outside,  will  they  be  able  to  pass?" 

"God!     I  don't  know— I  doubt  it." 

"There  are  five  minutes  before  my  entrance.  Take  me 
somewhere  where  I  can  see — quickly." 


148  THE   OLD   CARD 

Mr.  Gimball  hurried  him  through  the  iron  door  and  up 
some  private  stairs.  At  the  end  of  a  corridor  they  found  a 
window,  and  looked  down  at  the  street  below.  Flames  were 
pouring  from  the  factory  and  the  walls  bulged  dangerously. 

"Useless,"  said  Eliphalet.  "We  must  empty  the  house 
through  the  emergency  exits." 

Then  he  remembered,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Gimball  with 
condemning  eyes. 

"I  shall  lose  my  licence  for  this,"  muttered  the  manager 
hoarsely.  "There's  only  one  way  for  it — we  must  pass  them 
through  the  iron  door  and  out  across  the  stage." 

"You  fooll"  (It  was  most  unusual  for  Eliphalet  to  say  a 
thing  like  that.)  "You  fool!  Pass  three  hundred  people 
through  a  two-foot  doorway?  There'd  be  a  panic — a  hor- 
rible panic.  We  must  clear  those  blocked  exits,  that's  all." 

"It'll  take  an  hour." 

"Well  do  it  in  a  quarter." 

"But  in  the  meantime?" 

"In  the  meantime  we  will  play  the  play." 

"But,  my  God,  don't  you  realise  that  place  is  full  of 
explosives?  Even  if  we're  not  blown  up,  the  row " 

"And  don't  you  realise  it  is  a  battle  scene  we  shall  be 
playing?" 

Then,  as  fast  as  his  years  would  carry  him,  he  hurried 
back  to  the  stage. 

"What  orders,  Guv'nor?"  said  Manning,  who,  through 
the  open  door  of  the  scene  entrance,  could  see  the  progress 
of  the  fire. 

"Get  all  your  men,  Manning,  everyone  who  is  not  actually 
playing,  and  clear  the  stuff  from  the  emergency  exits.  The 
front  of  the  house  is  impassable.  Make  a  job  of  it,  Man- 
ning, while  I  hold  the  audience." 


GAS   WORKS  149 

"Right!"  said  Manning.  "Now,  boys,  every  one  of  you." 
He  was  stripping  off  his  coat  as  Eliphalet  heard  his  cue 
and  walked  on  to  the  stage. 

Even  through  the  make-up,  fear  was  written  large  on 
the  face  of  old  Kitterson,  who  played  the  orderly. 

"We're  in  for  a  rough  time,"  said  Eliphalet,  speaking 
from  the  text. 

There  came  a  sharp,  insistent  crackle — almost  merged  into 
a  single  report.  A  shelf  of  twelve-bore  cartridges  had  gone 
up  next  door. 

Eliphalet  took  a  cigarette  from  his  case  and  lit  it  steadily. 

"Why,  man,"  he  said  lightly,  between  the  puffs,  "you 
are  not  afraid — are  you?"  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
gripped  old  Kitterson's  arm  with  a  warning  pressure. 

"We've  been  through  too  much  together  to  show  the 
white  feather  now." 

Half  his  words  were  lost  in  the  roar  and  crackle  from 
outside. 

Captain  Raeburn  touched  his  friend's  arm. 

"Altering  the  lines,  aren't  they?"  he  queried. 

"Damn  good  effect  of  something  burning.  You  can  al- 
most smell  the  smoke." 

Eliphalet  had  smelt  the  smoke  too.  It  made  him  cough, 
so  he  impromptued  quickly. 

"The  devils  have  fired  the  outbuildings.  Phew!  how  the 
infernal  fumes  choke  one." 

He  strode  over  to  the  window,  through  which,  and  beyond 
the  edge  of  the  back  cloth,  the  open  scene  door  gave  a  view 
of  the  factory  fire. 

Great  geysers  of  flame  were  spouting  from  the  back  win- 
dows and  reaching  loving  hands  toward  the  gasometer,  not 
sixty  feet  distant. 


i5o  THE   OLD   CARD 

Old  Kitterson  had  followed  and  he,  too,  saw  and  real- 
ised the  waiting  danger. 

"God! "  he  exclaimed.  "If  that  catches! "  And  there  was 
a  note  of  terror  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Eliphalet  thoughtfully,  "if  they  fire  the  maga- 
zine it  would  not  be  pleasant." 

Kitterson  was  plucking  his  sleeve  and  beckoning  him  to 
come  away,  but  Eliphalet  threw  the  old  fellow  from  him 
with  a  fine  flash  of  anger  in  his  voice  and  eyes. 

"If  we  are  to  die,"  he  cried,  "we  will  die  like  soldiers  and 
gentlemen — at  our  posts." 

There  was  a  hoarse,  solid  detonation,  followed  by  a  splut- 
ter of  little  reports  and  the  sharp  stink  of  gunpowder  filled 
the  auditorium. 

Some  ladies  in  the  stalls  moved  restively,  and  complained 
it  was  too  realistic.  In  the  gallery  a  girl  shrieked,  and  some 
boys  mocked  her  with  their  laughter. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  sitting  on  the  window-sill,  light- 
ing a  fresh  cigarette. 

"Well  done,  lads,"  he  cried  to  his  imaginary  forces  be- 
)ow.  "A  few  more  like  that,  and  we " 

Crash! 

A  great  piece  of  the  factory  wall  fell  noisily  into  the  yard, 
and  the  released  flames  poured  out  toward  the  gasometer. 
Eliphalet  could  feel  the  sweat  breaking  out  upon  his  fore- 
head. He  almost  prayed  for  that  devastating  flash  which 
would  end  the  charade.  But  a  gentle  wind  took  the  matter 
in  hand  and  fanned  the  tongues  of  flame  away. 

De — dinga — longa — longalong.  De — dong — along — along. 

The  engines  were  coming.  He  had  forgotten  the  possi- 
bility of  that  sound  and  the  message  of  terror  it  might  con- 
vey to  the  audience.  If  the  truth  leaked  out  there  would  be 


GAS   WORKS  151 

a  panic.  They  would  find  the  front  of  the  theatre  impas- 
sable, and  battle  with  each  other  in  the  blocked  exits. 

So  he  burst  into  a  great  shout  of  laughter. 

"Some  idiot  is  ringing  the  fire  bell!"  he  shouted.  "Ha! 
the  fool.  Come,  Weldon;  don't  you  see  the  joke?  Laugh, 
man;  laugh!" 

"I  can't  make  this  out,"  Raeburn  was  saying.  "Wait 
here  a  minute.  I  am  going  to  see." 

He  slipped  from  the  box  and  ran  down  a  deserted  corri- 
dor. On  his  left  he  heard  the  sound  of  men's  voices  and  the 
moving  of  heavy  objects.  He  pushed  open  a  door  labelled 
"Extra  Exit"  and  found  Manning  with  a  crowd  of  furiously 
working  actors  and  stage  hands  humping  large  scene  flats 
into  the  street  at  the  back.  They  worked  as  though  their 
very  lives  depended  upon  it. 

"What's  up?"  demanded  Raeburn. 

Freddie  Manning  scarcely  looked  in  his  direction,  but 
he  jerked  out: 

"Get  away  and  keep  your  mouth  shut." 

Raeburn  took  the  hint,  and  made  his  way  to  the  box- 
office.  The  road  outside  was  blocked  with  fallen  debris  and 
mantled  in  a  smother  of  smoke.  It  cleared  for  a  second,  long 
enough  to  show  him  half  a  dozen  engines  farther  down, 
with  brass-helmeted  firemen  busy  paying  out  the  hose. 

Clinging  to  one  of  the  theatre  pillars  was  the  night-watch- 
man— a  shivering  wreck  of  what  so  short  a  time  before  had 
been  a  fine  connoisseur  of  dinner  ale. 

"There's  thousands  o'  rounds  up  there,"  he  dithered, 
pointing  at  the  still-to-catch  top  storey.  "And  if  they 
don't  set  off  the  gas-works,  may  I  never  touch  another 
pint." 

Then  Captain  Raeburn  understood  many  things,  and  he 


152  THE   OLD   CARD 

returned  to  his  box  to  watch  the  man  he  had  belittled  deal 
with  emergency. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  had  got  his  second  wind  and  was 
holding  the  audience  with  a  light  but  firm  rein.  He  was 
jesting  with  death  at  his  elbow — tickling  the  feet  of  Fate, 
and  strewing  the  stage  with  half-smoked  cigarettes.  Old 
Kitterson,  fired  by  example,  had  braced  his  shoulders  for 
the  ordeal  and  was  doing  his  best  to  help  the  Guv'nor  in 
his  hour  of  need. 

They  had  reverted  to  the  original  text  when  Raeburn  re- 
entered  the  box,  and  Kitterson  was  saying: 

"They  are  piling  explosives  beneath  the  main  gate,  sir." 

"We  shall  go  to  our  Maker  with  a  better  speed,  then." 

"Is  there  nothing  we  can  do?" 

"Nothing,  if  the  relief  is  not  in  time.  We  have  still  our 
prayers  and  a  generous  supply  of  these  excellent  cigarettes." 

Kitterson  (at  the  window):  "Ah!  they  are  lighting  the 
fuse.  They  move  away  from  it.  It  burns  slowly — Guv'- 
nor— sir!" 

Almost  with  a  single  impulse  the  entire  audience  clapped 
hands  over  his  ears,  and,  by  a  caprice  of  fortune,  some 
thousands  of  rounds  of  best  smokeless  cartridges  detonated 
with  a  hollow,  paralysing  roar. 

The  whole  building  shook.  The  long  line  of  the  back- 
cloth  snapped,  and  it  swung  down  from  a  single  tether. 
Several  women  went  into  hysterics,  and  a  quantity  of  plas- 
ter mouldings  fell  from  the  roof  and  splattered  among  the 
audience. 

Then  there  was  silence — no  sound  but  the  soothing  hiss 
of  water  on  red-hot  beams. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay,  with  arms  folded,  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  stage,  a  queer  smile  playing  about  his  lips;  Kit- 


GAS   WORKS  153 

terson  had  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands  and  was  crouch- 
ign  beside  a  table;  and  then  the  door  burst  open,  and  little 
Violet  O'Neal,  "the  Colonel's  daughter,"  followed  by  two 
men  in  officers'  uniforms,  burst  upon  the  stage. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  gasped.  "The  danger — the  worst  is 
over." 

Suddenly  her  part  came  back  to  her. 

"The  rebels  are  flying,"  she  cried.  "You're  safe — safe!" 

Eliphalet,  Colonel  and  father,  caught  her  to  his  breast, 
smothering  something  she  was  saying  about  the  gasometer. 

"God  has  rescued  us,  my  child — God  is  very  good." 

And  Manning,  who  had  dashed  up  from  the  street  a 
second  before,  was  just  in  time  to  ring  down. 

"Exits  all  clear,  Guv'nor,"  he  cried. 

"Take  up  the  curtain,  then,"  said  Eliphalet;  and  when  it 
rose  he  stepped  forward  to  the  footlights  and,  holding  up 
his  hand  for  silence,  said: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  will  you  kindly  leave  the  thea- 
tre by  the  right  and  left  emergency  exits.  There  has  been 
a  fire  in  the  street  by  the  box-office,  so  this  way  will  be  more 
convenient." 

He  bowed — turned  with  a  pardonable  instinct  towards  the 
box  in  which  Raeburn  and  his  friend  were  standing,  and 
favoured  them  with  a  very  slight  smile. 

The  curtain  fell  and  the  audience,  in  some  perplexity,  but 
without  panic,  filed  out  of  the  theatre  to  the  narrow  alley 
at  the  back. 

"Mr.  Cardomay,"  said  Gimball,  "I  reckon  you've  saved 
my  licence." 

"It  had  not  occurred  to  me  I  had  so  important  a  task  to 
fulfil,"  returned  Eliphalet. 

"I  can  tell  you  I'm  grateful." 


154  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Well,  you  will  at  least  admit  I  kept  them  in  the  theatre 
and  got  them  out." 

In  the  foyer  of  the  hotel  Captain  Raeburn  was  waiting, 
a  broad  hand  outstretched  to  greet  him. 

"You  flirted  with  death  better  than  anyone  I've  struck 
yet,"  he  said.  "I  estimate  you  have  saved  a  hundred  lives 
to-night,  Mr.  Cardomay.  Are  you  big  enough  to  accept 
an  apology?" 

A  flush  of  pride  spread  over  Eliphalet's  rugose  features. 

"I  am  small  enough  to  be  deeply  flattered  by  it,"  he 
replied,  as  he  took  the  proffered  hand.  "Yet,  after  all,  it 
was  a  simple  enough  matter.  I  had  but  to  follow  my  train- 
ing— to  give  them  a  few  whiffs  from  the  gas-works." 

"I  deserve  it,  Colonel,"  Raeburn  acknowledged,  "and  a 
good  kicking  besides.  But  look  here,  after  all  this,  surely 
you'll  have  a  drink  to-night." 

Eliphalet  smiled  whimsically. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  should  enjoy  a  cup  of  cocoa  very 
much." 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  laughed  Raeburn,  and  gave 
the  order. 

Eliphalet  divided  the  tails  of  his  coat  and  sat  himself 
comfortably  on  a  cane  chair. 

"Despite  our  earnest  preparations,  you  never  heard  the 
new  battle  effects,  after  all." 

"What  I  heard  was  pretty  convincing,  though!" 

"Ye — es!  But  still,  it's  disappointing.  Now,  if  you  and 
your  friend  would  accept  a  box  for  to-morrow  night " 

And  Raeburn  had  the  good  grace  to  answer: 

"There  is  nothing  I  should  enjoy  more." 


PART  II 
AND  A   ROUGH  COMPOUND 

CHAPTER  VIII 

MORNICE  JUNE 

ELIPHALET  CARDOMAY  stretched  himself  luxuri- 
ously on  a  green-painted  arm-chair  by  the  Achilles 
Statue  in  Hyde  Park. 

He  was  wearing  a  new  broad-brimmed  grey  felt  hat,  and 
the  seasonableness  of  his  attire  spread  to  a  pair  of  dark 
felt  spats,  below  which  the  bright  spring  sunshine  reflected 
itself  on  the  surface  of  his  well-blacked  boots. 

It  was  pleasing  to  lounge  under  the  new-foliaged  plane 
trees  and  watch  fashionable  London  sedately  disporting  it- 
self on  the  gravel  paths — to  see  the  riders  cantering  in  the 
Row,  and  to  hear  the  "clot-clot"  and  pleasant  jingle  of 
harness  as  the  smart  people  drove  by.  Something  in  the 
pageantry  of  it  all  appealed  to  his  dramatic  sense.  Pic- 
cadilly— the  Strand — Oxford  Street — awoke  no  sympathetic 
chords  in  his  being — he  was  more  at  ease  and  happier  in 
any  of  the  great  thoroughfares  of  Manchester,  Leeds  or 
Glasgow,  but  this  great  meeting-place  of  England's  noblest- 
born  stirred  him  strangely. 

The  tide  of  well-dressed  men  and  beautifully-gowned 
women  set  his  mind  upon  a  sad  train  of  thought.  They 


156  THE   OLD   CARD 

were  not  for  him,  these  select;  his  poster  on  a  hoarding 
they  would  pass  by  without  a  second  glance.  They  belonged 
to  the  great  ones  of  the  London  stage — that  mighty  little 
clique  whose  doors  were  barred  to  such  as  he.  That  very 
morning  he  had  seen  a  few  of  the  upper  theatrical  ten 
walking  in  the  Park,  and,  even  as  the  thought  crossed  his 
mind,  Sir  Charles  Cleeve,  an  actor  knight,  and  his  fash- 
ionable wife,  drove  past  in  a  high  phaeton  drawn  by  a  pair 
of  piebalds.  A  real  live  duchess  turned  in  her  carriage  to 
smile  a  greeting  to  them.  (Eliphalet  knew  she  was  a  duch- 
ess, for  he  had  often  seen  her  portrait  in  the  illustrated 
weeklies,  hanging  on  Smith's  book-stalls  in  the  Midland 
stations.)  A  clever  woman  Sir  Charles's  wife.  All  the 
world  knew  that  the  high  ground  he  now  held  unchallenged 
had  in  part  been  won  for  him  by  her  tireless  energy,  tact  and 
charm. 

It  was  a  great  thing  for  an  actor  to  possess  such  a  wife. 
He  fell  to  wondering  whether,  had  his  choice  been  as  happy, 
he,  too,  might  not  have  been  a  member  of  the  Garrick 
Club,  a  driver  of  phaetons,  a  recipient  of  smiles  from  duch- 
esses. He  could  hardly  refrain  from  smiling  at  the  thought 
of  the  figure  his  wife  would  have  cut  in  polite  society.  Yet 
she  had  been  an  able  enough  actress  in  her  day.  Poor 
Blanche — poor,  empty-headed,  self-centred,  easy-virtued 
Blanche.  It  required  an  effort  to  reconstruct  her  picture  in 
his  mind.  Twenty-seven  years  is  a  long  time,  and  even 
pleasant  pictures  had  faded  in  less.  Once  he  had  loved 
her,  like  a  very  Romeo,  and  set  her  on  a  pinnacle  higher 
than  any  balcony.  He  shivered,  as  with  horrible  clarity  he 
saw  the  night  when,  returning  late  from  the  theatre  (there 
had  been  a  rehearsal  after  the  show),  he  had  found  her  in 
their  wretched  little  parlour,  drinking  a  wretched  brand 


MORNICE   JUNE  157 

of  champagne  with  Harrington  May,  the  leading-man.  The 
same  Harrington  May  who  had  fled  from  the  field  of  hon- 
our— to  return  later,  as  a  fly  returns  to  a  pot  of  jam. 

Everyone  has  supper  with  everyone  else  on  the  provincial 
stage.  It  is  one  of  the  best  and  friendliest  traditions  of  the 
Road,  and  Eliphalet,  born  and  bred  of  the  Boards,  would 
have  thought  no  ill  to  find  her  entertaining  one  or  a  dozen 
men  at  any  hour  of  the  night.  But  this  was  different.  It 
was  not  the  friendly  little  repast  with  its  scrambled  eggs 
and  rattle  of  theatrical  shop;  it  was  frankly  a  carouse. 
There  were  empty  tinselled  bottles  on  the  table,  and  those 
down  whose  throats  the  liquid  had  passed  were  drunk — Har- 
rington May  dully,  and  his  wife  stupidly.  She  had  her 
head  on  the  man's  shoulder,  and  was  laughing  in  a  loose, 
trumpery  way. 

It  was  useless  to  talk  to  them,  for  May  was  not  in  a  state 
to  distinguish  between  flattery  and  abuse,  while  she  was  in 
a  mood  to  say  things  no  man  would  desire  a  third  person 
to  hear.  Accordingly,  he  postponed  his  observations  until 
next  morning,  and  when  that  came  it  appeared  she  had  the 
more  to  say.  With  bitter  emphasis  she  stated  that,  as  a 
husband,  Eliphalet  fell  far  short  of  her  ideals.  Apart  from 
the  miserable  salary  he  earned,  which,  in  itself,  was  an  in- 
sult to  a  woman  who  was  earning  a  larger  one  (for  Blanche 
was  playing  the  villainess  and  he  the  juvenile,  and  in  those 
days  virtue  was  cheaper  than  crime),  she  abhorred  his  stu- 
dious nature,  his  ridiculous  name,  and  his  attitude  towards 
life  in  general.  She  was  of  a  lively  temperament — a  temper- 
ament calling  for  plenty  of  sparkle  and  sunshine  (he  had 
thought  of  those  empty  bottles  downstairs),  and  accord- 
ingly had  decided  to  leave  him  for  good. 

Eliphalet  offered  little  or  no  opposition.    He  had  known 


158  THE   OLD   CARD 

for  a  long  while  that  sooner  or  later  their  ill-assorted  union 
would  come  to  an  end. 

"Very  well,"  he  had  said;  'I  won't  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  happiness.  You  shall  have  a  divorce  as  soon  as  it  can 
be  arranged." 

Instead  of  regarding  this  as  a  token  of  goodwill,  Blanche 
had  reviled  him.  It  was  obvious,  she  cried,  he  had  no  love 
for  her,  and  merely  made  her  his  wife  for  the  sake  of  the 
better  salary  she  earned;  and — now  he  seized  the  chance 
of  a  divorce  in  the  hope  of  wringing  heavy  damages  from 
Harrington. 

"I  want  no  damages,"  he  replied.  "Maybe  I  shall  find 
my  reward  without." 

Eliphalet  did  not  have  a  speaking  part  in  the  scene  that 
followed.  His  first  line  was  "Thank  God,"  and  that  was 
after  the  door  had  slammed. 

So  Harrington  May  assumed  responsibilities  for  Eli- 
phalet Cardomay's  matrimonial  obligations,  and  when  the 
decree  nisi  was  made  absolute,  he  took  "Miss  Blanche  Can- 
non" to  be  his  lawful  wedded  wife. 

How  the  union  had  turned  out  Eliphalet  never  knew, 
since  from  the  hour  she  left  his  house  he  had  met  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  Indirectly  he  heard  that  as  fruit  of 
their  love  a  daughter  had  been  born — and  that  was  the  only 
thing  for  which  he  envied  Harrington  May.  He  might  have 
saved  himself  the  trouble,  for  poor  Harrington,  possibly 
from  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  this  miniature  edition  of  her 
faultless  mother,  shortly  afterwards  gave  up  the  ghost. 
Blanche,  whose  appreciation  for  a  change  of  diet  had  not 
waned  with  his  decease,  took  unto  herself  a  lover,  and  fades 
from  view  in  a  mist  of  misguided  emotions. 


MORNICE   JUNE  159 

"Dear  me!  Surely  I  am  not  mistaken — it  is  Mr.  Car- 
domay?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  own  name  Eliphalet's  mind  came  back 
to  the  present  with  a  jolt. 

Standing  before  him,  leaning  on  an  ebony  cane,  stood  a 
middle-aged  gentleman,  faultlessly  dressed  and  of  aristo- 
cratic bearing. 

Eliphalet  rose.  "I  am,"  he  said,  "but  for  the  mo- 
ment  " 

"No — no — no,"  hastily  interposed  the  other,  "you  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  remember  me.  Both  you  and  I,  Mr. 
Cardomay,  in  our  separate  spheres,  are  engaged  in  catering 
for  these."  He  made  a  slight  gesture  toward  the  passers- 
by.  "We  met  but  once,  and  that  on  the  occasion  of  your 
very  admirable  performance  of  Cellini." 

Eliphalet  blushed  at  the  words,  although  no  under-cur- 
rent of  satire  was  conveyed.  That  same  "very  admirable 
performance  of  Cellini"  stood  for  him  as  a  door  that  barred 
him  from  London  theatres  for  all  time. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  to  hide  his  confusion,  "I  do  remem- 
ber you.  Mr.  Bridge  Deansgate,  who  owns  the  Mall  Thea- 
tre, is  it  not?" 

Mr.  Deansgate  smiled  affably. 

"But  please  don't  stand,"  he  begged.  "And,  if  I  may,  I 
will  sit  beside  you.  That's  better.  Yes,  yes,  yes;  I  often 
wonder  why  we  see  so  little  of  you  in  town,  Mr.  Cardo- 
may— but  perhaps  your  presence  here  betokens " 

"No,"  came  the  hasty  assurance.  "I  am  spending  a  few 
weeks'  holiday  before  my  next  tour." 

"Indeed.  I  understand  your  recent  production  was  a  great 
success — great.  You  are  stopping  in  Mayfair — near  the 
Park— yes?" 


160  THE   OLD   CARD 

"I  have  some  rooms  in  Camden  Town." 

"Ah.  I  have  often  heard  it  spoken  of  as  a  most  healthy 
district.  For  the  moment  I  forget  the  nature  of  the  soil 
— gravel,  I  believe.  And  so  you  are  taking  a  few  weeks' 
immunity  from  work?  Umhum!  Yes — yes.  Now  I  won- 
der— but  still,  if  you  are  resting,  perhaps  not." 

"You  were  about  to  suggest?" 

"Nothing,  nothing.  A  fleeting  idea,  that  is  all,  prompted 
by  this  happy  encounter.  As  doubtless  you  have  heard, 
we  are  producing  'Hamlet'  for  four  weeks,  and  it  occurred 
to  me — but  perhaps  I  should  offend  you.  We  have  an  ad- 
mirable cast,  and  in  many  ways  it  would  be  a  pleasant  en- 
gagement. You  see,  nowadays  it  is  so  hard  to  find  actors 
who  still  understand  the  grand  old  method." 

He  inclined  his  head  gracefully  to  Eliphalet,  who  bowed 
in  response. 

"I  am  disposed  to  be  interested,"  he  said. 

"For  the  Ghost,  now,  where  is  a  manager  to  turn?  That 
very  thought  was  possessing  my  brain  when  I  chanced  to 
look  up  and  see  you.  If  you  are  not  otherwise  engaged, 
how  would  it  be  to  stroll  to  the  Corner  and  pick  up  a  han- 
som? They  have  a  chef  at  the  Garrick  with  a  true  appre- 
ciation of  how  a  Chateaubriand  should  be  cooked." 

The  upshot  of  this  conversation  and  an  excellent  lunch 
was  to  find  Eliphalet  Cardomay,  at  three  o'clock  the  same 
afternoon,  discussing  terms  with  the  business  manager  of 
the  Mall. 

"I  never  talk  about  money,"  Mr.  Deansgate  had  said. 
"Tell  Dawson  to  give  you  what  you  want." 

Winslow  Dawson  was  an  agreeable  little  man,  who  had  the 
habit  of  paying  less  than  you  intended  to  accept,  at  the 
same  time  conveying  the  impression  that  you  had  bested 


MORNICE   JUNE  161 

him  all  along  the  line.  He  carried  his  hands  permanently 
in  his  trousers  pockets,  from  whence  they  never  appeared  to 
emerge,  even  when  a  door  had  to  be  opened  or  shut  or  a 
contract  signed.  He  performed  these  functions,  so  it  seemed, 
by  some  balancing  feat  of  prestidigitation.  He  had  a  habit 
of  balancing  on  his  heels  and  contemplating  his  patent- 
leather  toes.  He  would  remain  thus  during  a  long  discus- 
sion, then  look  up  with  the  sunniest  of  smiles  and  say, 
"Then  that's  settled,  isn't  it?" 

When  Eliphalet  left  the  theatre  it  was  in  a  very  happy 
mood.  After  all,  he  would  appear  in  London  again,  and 
— what  was  better  still — in  a  part  regarding  the  rendering 
of  which  he  could  scarcely  be  at  fault. 

Mr.  Deansgate  had  said,  "Do  just  as  you  like  with  it, 
my  dear  Cardomay;  we  have  every  confidence  in  you." 

In  honour  of  the  occasion  he  stood  himself  tea  at  Fuller's 
and  ate  quite  a  large  piece  of  walnut  cake. 

"A  delightful  management,"  he  reflected.  "This  is  better 
than  a  holiday,  old  boy." 

Perhaps  he  felt  a  shade  awkward  at  the  rehearsal  next 
morning  to  find  the  stage  thronged  with  so  many  unfa- 
miliar faces,  but  for  the  most  part  they  were  a  friendly 
company,  and  very  soon  he  was  quite  at  ease  with  the  men. 

The  ladies  he  found  difficult,  being  so  totally  dissimilar 
to  the  homely,  good-natured  souls  who  played  with  him  on 
his  hundred  tours. 

There  was  a  Miss  Helen  Winter,  who  played  the  Queen 
and  whose  personality  caused  him  alarm.  She  seemed  far 
more  like  a  duchess  than  the  real  example  he  had  seen  in 
the  Park.  Her  clothes  were  severe  to  a  fault,  and  she  used 
lorgnettes  with  awful  precision.  Somehow  the  sense  of  these 
instruments  pervaded  her  even  in  the  Castle  of  Elsinore. 


162  THE   OLD   CARD 

When  they  were  introduced  she  said: 

"How  do  you  do,  dear  Mr.  Cardomay.  I  have  heard  so 
much  about  you."  Then  departed  quickly,  as  though  fear- 
ing he  might  be  tempted  to  tell  her  more. 

For  Ophelia  one  of  London's  younger  emotional  actresses 
had  been  secured.  Her  emotions  were  more  acutely  demon- 
strated off  the  stage  than  on,  for  it  appeared,  despite  a 
healthy  exterior,  she  was  racked  with  torments  arising  from 
an  ailment  described  as  "my  neuralgia."  She  spoke  of  her 
neuralgia  as  others  might  say  "My  Mother."  It  was  in- 
deed her  most  cherished  possession,  and  only  through  the 
good  offices  of  smelling-salts  and  aspirin  was  she  able  to 
encompass  the  calls  made  upon  her  artistry. 

Eliphalet,  having  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  young 
lady  and  her  neuralgia,  and  being  attracted  by  neither, 
sought  for  someone  to  talk  with  during  his  long  waits.  In 
so  doing  he  espied  Miss  Mornice  June. 

Mornice  was  absurdly  pretty.  She  had  big  black-lashed 
eyes  and  a  mass  of  whitey-gold  fluffy  hair.  She  played  the 
part  of  the  Player  Queen,  and  held  sway  over  the  hearts  of 
the  small-part  young  gentlemen  and  those  engaged  as  "ex- 
tras." 

They  gathered  about  her  in  the  wings  and  sought  the  fa- 
vour of  her  smile.  Neither  did  they  seek  in  vain,  for  Morn- 
ice  had  a  quality  of  responsiveness  that  caused  all  who  came 
in  contact  with  her  to  believe  themselves  vital  to  her  well- 
being.  Did  they  come  with  jests,  her  laughter  was  light- 
hearted  and  unstinted;  did  they  come  in  sorrow,  she  was 
quick  to  sympathise,  and  real  tears  would  moisten  her 
lashes.  An  extremely  sensitive  person  was  Mornice,  who 
answered  every  vibration  about  her — be  it  grave  or  gay. 
Not  in  mood  alone  but  in  outline,  her  entire  being  seemed 


MORNICE   JUNE  163 

to  impregnate  itself  with  the  spirit  of  the  moment.  She 
would  break  off  suddenly  in  the  merriest  laugh  to  respond  to 
a  bar  of  music  wailing  pathetically  from  a  hidden  violin. 

"Just  listen!  Isn't  it  wonderful!"  she  would  say,  trans- 
formed into  a  picture  of  rapt  adoration.  Then  in  a  second 
she  was  back  again  to  her  faun-like  merriment,  exchanging 
jokes  that  a  properly  brought  up  young  lady  would  have 
failed  to  understand. 

"Who  is  the  little  lady  yonder?"  Eliphalet  asked. 

Miss  Helen  Winter  threw  a  flickering  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  gaze. 

"I  really  couldn't  tell  you,  dear  Mr.  Cardomay,  for  I 
don't  know.  A  nice  little  thing,  no  doubt,  but  hardly  a 
lady.  She  gives  me  the  impression  of  being  on  the  stage 
for  the  purpose  of  earning  a  living." 

This  was  too  subtle  for  Eliphalet,  and  he  asked  for  an 
explanation. 

"I  mean  she  has  no  people — no  money.  She  acts  for  a 
livelihood.  Of  course  that  is  purely  a  surmise,  but  I  am 
sure  I  am  right.  The  stage  is  full  of  young  girls  who  are 
trying  to  earn  their  living.  It  is  very  sad,  when  one  comes 
to  think  of  it." 

Being  herself  a  dweller  in  Park  Street,  with  no  real  occa- 
sion to  act,  Miss  Winter  was  one  of  the  rapidly  increasing 
class  who  make  it  impossible  for  the  really  needy  to  find 
employment. 

Eliphalet  was  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  methods  London 
managers  had  begun  to  use.  He  did  not  know  that  it  had 
become  quite  de  rigueur  to  engage  society  ladies  to  play 
leading  parts,  irrespective  of  talent  and  merely  for  the  sake 
of  the  smart  friends  they  attracted.  It  is  the  Box  Office 
that  counts,  first,  last  and  always.  Remember  that,  some  of 


164  THE   OLD   CARD 

you  clever  young  ladies,  before  you  abandon  the  typewriter 
or  the  comfortable  certainty  of  the  Insurance  Office. 

"To  me,"  he  said,  "that  stands  to  her  credit.  She  strikes 
me  as  a  most  charming  little  girl." 

"Oh,  quite — quite,  dear  Mr.  Cardomay,  but  provincial — 
very,  very  provincial."  And  having  delivered  this  two- 
edged  thrust,  she  sailed  away  to  pastures  new. 

So  Eliphalet  asked  the  same  question  of  Polonius. 

"Mornice  June,  her  name  is.  Something  in  her,  I  fancy. 
Forget  who  told  me  she's  been  earning  her  living  since  she 
was  fourteen.  Her  people  were  a  bad  lot — deserted  her — 
so  they  say." 

Eliphalet  did  not  need  to  introduce  himself,  for  the  verj 
next  day  Mornice  marched  up  and  gave  him  a  cheery  smile. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  talk?"  she  said.  "You  look  so  homish 
to  me.  I  can't  get  on  with  these  London  people  a  bit." 

He  made  room  for  her  on  the  roll  of  carpet,  and  she  sat 
beside  him. 

"Yet,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  "you  seem  to  be  very  popu- 
lar." 

"With  those  silly  boys,  yes!  But  even  they  are  different. 
I  say,  I'm  sure  you  know  all  about  playing  in  Shakespeare. 
I  do  wish  you'd  be  an  absolute  dear,  and  hear  me  my  lines. 
I'm  certain  I  shall  get  a  fearful  'bird'  from  his  Nibs."  (His 
Nibs  was  her  name  for  the  eminent  producer.)  "It's  the 
blank  verse  that  does  me.  I've  never  tackled  verse  before, 
except  'I  am  Lily,  called  the  Flowers'  Queen,  the  goodest, 
sweetest  fairy  ever  seen.'  You  know — you  flip  up  through 
a  star  trap  and  get  it  off  your  chest,  where  the  white  limes 
meet." 

She  delivered  the  cheap  couplet  with  perfect  mimicry  of 
pantomime  style,  then  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed  gaily. 


MORNICE   JUNE  165 

Eliphalet  caught  the  infection  of  her  spirit,  and  laughed  too. 

"But  you  will  be  a  dear,  and  help  me,  won't  you?"  she 
appealed,  picking  a  speck  of  fluff  from  the  knee  of  his  trou- 
sers. "I  say,  you  didn't  brush  yourself  very  carefully  this 
morning,  did  you?" 

"I  stand  corrected,"  said  Eliphalet;  "but  my  dresser  is 
away  on  his  holiday." 

"Aren't  you  married,  then?" 

"No — not  now." 

Mornice's  face  became  serious  at  once. 

"You  poor  dear,  I  am  so  sorry.    Is  she ?" 

But  Eliphalet  took  the  book  from  her  hand. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  hear  those  lines.  We  will  go 
down  this  corridor,  where  we  shall  be  undisturbed." 

As  a  rule,  when  you  hold  the  book  for  someone  who  is 
almost  a  stranger  they  are  anxious  and  awkward,  but  it 
was  not  so  with  Mornice. 

"It's  just  here  where  she  enters  with  the  Player  King. 
There!  Got  it?  Right-o." 

In  a  second  she  flung  herself  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene. 
Gesture,  voice  and  feature  were  alike  unchained  to  the 
emergency  of  the  situation.  At  the  right  moment  she 
dropped  to  her  knees  and  with  outstretched  arms  poured 
forth  the  protestations  of  undying  fidelity  with  ringing 
vibrations  of  emotion.  When  she  had  finished,  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  exclaimed: 

"There!  that's  the  best  I  can  do!" 

Eliphalet  was  amazed.  Never  before  had  he  seen  anyone 
more  liberally  endowed  with  natural  ability.  And  yet  he 
knew  this  ability  was  misguided — that  Mornice  June  suf- 
fered from  a  fatal  facility. 

Spontaneous  ease  of  obtaining  effects  is  perhaps  the  most 


166  THE   OLD   CARD 

dangerous  asset  an  artist  may  possess.  You  will  find  it 
in  legions  of  draughtsmen,  who  will  dash  off  what  is 
seemingly  the  cleverest  sketch  and  actually  a  mere  tangle 
of  inaccuracy — wrong  in  every  line  and  detail.  They  are 
born  with  a  box  of  tricks — any  one  of  which  may  be  drawn 
from  its  docket  at  a  second's  notice. 

Reach-me-down  art — and  as  unlike  the  real  thing  as  a 
city  tailor's  ready-for-wear  garments  to  the  creations  of  a 
Savile  Row  expert. 

It  was  beyond  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  skill  to  point  out 
the  fundamental  fault  in  the  girl's  acting,  and  it  was  beyond 
his  skill  to  indicate  the  fortune  to  which  her  facile  skill 
directed  her.  Had  one  of  those  wise  and  energetic  gentlemen 
been  present,  those  gentlemen  who  project  their  three-reel 
productions  upon  a  white  screen  and  who  speak  of  "Close- 
ups,"  "Eyes  that  register  well,"  "Panoraming  the  Camera," 
and  so  forth,  he  would  have  recognised  at  once  the  great 
future  awaiting  Miss  Mornice  June  in  the  broad  estates  of 
Filmland. 

"I  have  nothing  but  admiration,"  said  Eliphalet.  "You 
must  have  studied  hard  to  do  so  well." 

"Studied!  I  just  swotted  up  the  lines,  that's  all.  How 
does  one  study?" 

"By  considering  the  relative  values  of  what  one  is  saying 
and  inflecting  the  lines  accordingly." 

"Oh,  I  should  never  be  able  to  do  that.  I  just  get  a 
thing,  or  I  don't  get  it.  But  d'you  really  think  it'll  do?" 

"I  imagine  it  will  do  more  than  well." 

"Oh,  you  are  a  dear!  I  was  sure  you'd  give  me  the 
'bird.' " 

"Tell  me:  you  have  been  on  the  stage  for  some  long 
while?" 


MORNICE   JUNE  167 

"Urn.  Donkeys'  years;  but  I'm  thinking  of  chucking  it." 

"Giving  it  up?" 

'Yes;  for  the  'movies.' " 

Eliphalet  was  aghast.  To  him  the  Cinema  was  a  very 
degrading  profession. 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "y°u  would  find  that  a  very 
poor  alternative  to  our  beautiful  art." 

"But  I  love  the  'movies,'  and  I'm  sure  I  should  be  able 
to  blink  myself  to  fame.  I  can  cry  like  old  Billy-oh  when 
I  want  to — and  the  wet-lash  stunt  is  half  the  battle, 
y'know." 

Just  then  one  of  her  many  admirers  came  down  the  corri- 
dor. He  was  a  smooth-haired,  self-satisfied  looking  fellow, 
who  played  the  Second  Player. 

"I've  -been  looking  everywhere  for  you,"  he  said.  "We 
shall  have  to  go  on  in  a  minute." 

Eliphalet  moved  away  and  left  them  together. 

"You  are  a  rotter,  Moray,  to  talk  to  that  old  blighter 
and  leave  me  in  the  lurch." 

"He's  a  duck,"  said  Mornice,  "and  I  love  him." 

"I  think  you  love  everyone  except  me." 

"Darling,"  she  exclaimed  with  outstretched  arms,  "I  love 
you  to  distraction.  Without  you  the  world  would  be  a 
desert  track,  or  tract,  whichever  it 'is." 

"Then  for  God's  sake  give  me  a  kiss! " 

Mornice  considered  the  proposition  in  pouting  perplexity. 
Then  she  laughed  and  said: 

"Don't  be  such  a  stupid  little  fool,  Ken." 

"You  always  say  that  when  I  come  to  the  point." 

"Avoid  the  point  then,  darling,  and  you  won't  get  your 
pretty  little  puds  pricked." 

"Look  here,  will  you  come  out  to  lunch  with  me?" 


i68  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Will  I— will  I?  No.  I  won't,  but  I'll  come  to  tea 
instead,  and  pay  my  own  share." 

"Won't  you  let  me  kiss  you?  I'm  in  deadly  earnest, 
Morny." 

"If  you're  in  deadly  earnest  you  shall  kiss  me.  Oh,  but 
not  now.  You  shall  kiss  me  on  the  back  of  the  ear  when 
it  comes  to  the  cue  for  the  kiss  in  our  scene."  And  so 
saying,  she  ducked  her  head  and  bolted  down  the  corridor 
as  fast  as  she  could  run. 

During  the  fortnight  of  rehearsals  Eliphalet  saw  a  great 
deal  of  Mornice,  and  they  became  inseparable  friends.  She 
told  him  her  name  was  really  Alice  May,  but  she  couldn't 
endure  Alice,  so  had  achieved  Mornice  from  the  deeps  of 
her  imagination.  She  had  elected  the  riper  month  of  June 
instead  of  May  because  it  sounded  jollier  after  Mornice. 
Of  her  people  she  scarcely  ever  spoke.  Once,  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  she  chanced  to  remark: 

"Oh  yes,  he  did  a  vamoose — like  mother." 

"What  is  a  'vamoose'?"  he  asked. 

"When  you  skip  off  and  leave  everything  to  look  after 
itself." 

"And  that  is  what  happened  with  you?" 

"Umps!     I've  been  on  my  own  since  I  wore  pigtails." 

Eliphalet  was  silent,  thinking  of  the  risks  to  which  this 
child  must  have  been  exposed  in  her  struggle  for  a  living. 
Intuitively  she  read  his  thoughts,  and  said: 

"I  can  look  after  myself,  though.    Don't  you  worry!" 

"I  am  quite  confident  of  that,"  he  replied.  Then,  after 
a  slight  hesitancy,  "But  aren't  you  a  shade  unwise  to  en- 
courage the  admiration  of  all  these  young  men?  That  Mr. 
Kenneth  Luke,  for  instance?" 


MORNICE   JUNE  169 

"Oh,  Ken's  all  right.  He  went  to  Oxford  College,  so  he 
ought  to  know  how  to  behave." 

Eliphalet  smiled  and  shook  his  head  dubiously.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  her  reasoning  was  not  quite  conclusive. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Master  Kenneth  had  been  a  little  too 
importunate  of  late,  and  Mornice  had  been  considering  the 
advisability  of  "choking  him  off."  However,  since  her  one 
scene  had  to  be  played  with  him,  she  had  thought  it  better 
to  keep  on  friendly  terms. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  more  than  pleased  with  the 
notices  the  press  gave  him  after  the  first  night.  "A  render- 
ing full  of  the  best  traditions  of  Shakespeare,"  said  one. 
"Mr.  Cardomay's  beautiful  voice  was  heard  to  advantage," 
said  another. 

It  was  gratifying  to  hear  his  "beautiful  voice"  spoken  of 
as  though  the  whole  world  knew  of  its  existence.  He  began 
to  regain  some  of  the  confidence  lost  after  his  last  London 
appearance.  He  fell  to  wondering  what  they  would  have 
said  had  he  appeared  as  Hamlet  instead  of  the  Ghost,  and 
concluded,  erroneously,  the  papers  would  have  been  equally 
flattering. 

He  had  never  played  Hamlet,  and  the  idea  of  doing  so 
on  some  future  tour  possessed  him.  Little  Mornice  June 
should  be  given  the  part  of  Ophelia,  and  would  certainly 
outshine  the  neuralgic  young  lady  in  her  rendering.  All 
she  needed  was  guidance. 

Eliphalet  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  engage  Mornice 
on  a  long  contract,  not  only  for  her  talent,  but  because 
he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  losing  sight  of  her. 
Somehow  she  filled  an  empty  space  in  his  heart  that  long 
had  craved  for  a  tenant.  It  is  good  for  a  man  to  have  some 
interests  in  life  outside  his  work,  and  he  had  none. 


170  THE   OLD   CARD 

There  was  something  in  Mornice  that  awoke  a  queer 
familiarity  with  another  episode  of  his  life,  but  when  he 
tried  to  place  the  impression  it  would  not  develop.  Was  it 
perhaps  with  scatter-brained  little  Eunice  Terry,  whom  he 
had  disillusioned  about  the  stage?  No!  For  beyond  the 
"Nice"  at  the  ends  of  their  Christian  names  there  was  little 
enough  semblance.  Mornice  had  her  head  screwed  on  the 
right  way,  whereas  Eunice  had  nearly  had  hers  screwed  orf. 

One  morning  a  rehearsal  had  been  called  for  some  minor 
alterations,  and  Eliphalet  was  sitting  with  his  back  against 
a  scene-flat,  when  he  head  Mornice's  voice  on  the  other  side. 

"Poor  Ken,"  she  was  saying.  "Oh,  dear,  what  a  sad  and 
gloomy  face!" 

"You  know  how  to  cure  it,"  came  the  answer. 

"I?    I  only  seem  to  make  it  worse." 

"That's  true.  You're  playing  with  me,  Morny,  and  I've 
had  enough  of  it." 

"Well,  if  you're  too  old  to  play,  go  and  sit  in  the  corner 
with  a  book." 

"For  God's  sake  chuck  fooling.  After  all,  you  can't 
afford  to  turn  me  down  like  this,  and  I'm  not  the  chap  to 
put  up  with  it  for  ever." 

It  was  a  graceless  speech,  and  Eliphalet  was  astonished 
at  the  girl's  answer. 

"You  old  silly,  I  don't  want  to  turn  you  down.  I'd  like 
you  to  be  happy  as  the  rest  are." 

"Well,  make  me  happy,  then." 

"  'Course  I  will— if  I  can." 

"If  you  can!  Look  here,  Morny;  come  and  have  supper 
with  me  after  the  show  to-night."  She  did  not  reply,  and 
he  went  on:  "Why,  hang  it,  you  must  have  been  out  to 
supper  scores  of  times." 


MORNICE   JUNE  171 

"Yes,  I  have — scores  and  scores." 

"Will  you  come,  then?"  There  was  more  than  eagerness 
in  his  tone. 

"I  may  as  well,  I  suppose.    Very  well,  then — yes." 

"At  last!  And  that's  a  bargain,  isn't  it?  There's  no 
going  back  now?  Where  would  you  like  to  go?  Cecil? — 
Savoy?  Just  say,  and  I'll  ring  up  for  a  room  at  once." 

"A  room!    What  for?" 

"We  shan't  want  to  be  disturbed." 

"Shan't  we?  Now  look  here,  Ken;  if  I  come  to  supper 
with  you  we  sup  in  the  main  restaurant,  or  not  at  all." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that.  You  can  safely  leave 
the  arrangements  to  me." 

"Right;  I  will.    And  I'll  leave  you  the  supper,  too." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I've  taken  a  very  intense  dislike  to  you.  I  think  you 
are  an  absolute  low  little  rotter." 

Eliphalet,  on  the  other  side  of  the  piece  of  scenery,  mur- 
mured a  prayer  of  thanksgiving. 

"You  do?"  said  Kenneth.  "Well,  if  that's  so,  you  won't 
be  disappointed.  I  may  not  be  great  shakes  in  the  com- 
pany, but  I  can  promise  to  make  it  none  too  pleasant  a 
place  for  you — unless  you  say  you  are  sorry." 

It  was  all  very  ill-conditioned  and  childish. 

"The  only  thing  I'm  sorry  about,"  said  Mornice,  "is 
that  I  didn't  smack  your  face  days  ago."  She  marched 
off,  the  picture  of  outraged  dignity. 

And  Eliphalet,  as  a  student  of  nature,  reflected  that  the 
young  man  had  received  a  more  valuable  lesson  than  all  his 
'Varsity  training  had  provided,  and,  when  the  rancour  had 
abated,  would  profit  very  greatly  therefrom. 

It  is  always  disappointing  when  one's  opinions  prove  to 


172  THE   OLD    CARD 

be  at  fault.  Possibly  this  in  some  measure  added  to  Eli- 
phalet's  cold  fury  at  what  took  place  that  evening. 

He  had  gone  down  earlier  than  usual  and  was  standing  in 
the  wings,  watching  the  Play  Scene.  Mornice  and  Kenneth 
Luke  as  the  Player  King  and  Queen,  with  arms  interlaced, 
came  on  to  the  stage  within  the  stage  and  began  to  speak 
their  lines,  and  'there  followed  the  most  paltry  piece  of 
meanness  Eliphalet  had  ever  beheld.  A  deliberate  effort  to 
"queer"  a  fellow-player. 

Seemingly  Kenneth  Luke  had  profited  nothing  by  his 
lesson  of  the  morning  and  was  determined  to  take  it  out  of 
his  mentor  by  the  unkindest  method. 

He  ended  his  first  speech  with  so  inconclusive  an  inflection 
that  it  was  well-nigh  impossible  for  her  to  speak  her  lines. 
Not  satisfied  with  this,  he  introduced  long  pauses  in  the 
wrong  places  and  when  she,  believing  he  had  forgotten  his 
part,  began  to  speak,  he  spoke  also,  with  the  result  that 
the  words  jumbled  together  unintelligibly. 

Mornice  did  her  best,  but  had  lost  the  thread  of  the  scene 
and  broke  down.  So  Kenneth  prompted  her  audibly,  and 
no  sooner  had  she  started  than  he  essayed  to  "queer"  her 
afresh.  But  that  was  not  all,  for  when,  in  the  course  of 
the  scene,  he  lay  down  for  his  afternoon  repose,  or  "secure 
hour,"  he  contrived  to  lie  upon  the  train  of  her  gown. 
Certainly  he  did  it  very  discreetly,  and  none  but  Eliphalet 
saw.  It  appeared  from  the  front  to  be  mere  carelessness 
when  Mornice,  in  backing  from  the  stage,  stumbled,  tried 
to  recover  herself  and  fell  noisily  down  the  rostrum  steps. 

The  effect  of  a  roar  of  laughter  in  that  part  of  the  play 
can  be  imagined.  The  act,  in  the  vulgar  parlance,  was 
"dished." 


MORNICE   JUNE  173 

Even  through  his  make-up  of  ghostly  green  Eliphalet 
Cardomay  went  quite  purple. 

To  trifle  with  one's  art  was  to  him  an  unforgivable 
offence — but  when  that  trifling  was  done  in  a  Shakespearian 
production,  a  London  theatre,  and  as  a  piece  of  sheer  malice 
against  a  young  girl ! 

The  muscles  of  his  hands  knotted  convulsively.  This  was 
a  matter  that  could  be  dealt  with  in  only  one  way.  He 
made  a  movement  toward  the  back  of  the  stage,  then 
checked  himself.  He  would  be  wanted  for  his  last  scene 
in  a  moment.  He  must  wait  until  after  that,  and  then ! 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  countenance 
did  not  wear  that  expression  of  seraphic  benignity  it  should 
when  he  appeared  behind  the  gauzy  curtain  and  Hamlet 
spoke  the  lines,  "Look  here  upon  this  picture  and  on  this." 
He  contrived  to  impart  the  full  measure  of  appeal  into  the 
final  words,  "Speak  to  her,  Hamlet,"  then  hurried  from  the 
stage,  stripping  off  his  draperies  and  breathing  through  the 
nose. 

On  the  first  dressing-room  landing  Mornice  was  standing, 
and  before  her,  looking  very  different  from  his  usual  placid 
self,  was  Mr.  Winslow  Dawson. 

"That  sort  of  thing  may  do  for  the  provinces,"  he  was 
saying,  "but  it  won't  do  in  the  Mall  Theatre.  I  have  never 
seen  such  an  exhibition." 

"I  didn't  forget  my  cue,"  said  Mornice  pathetically. 
"Really  and  truly,  I  didn't —  and  it  wasn't  my  fault  I 
fell  down." 

Mr.  Dawson  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  his  head. 

"Mr.  Luke,"  he  said.  Kenneth  Luke  stepped  out  of  the 
shadows,  "you  play  the  scene  together — what  have  you  to 
say?" 


174  THE   OLD    CARD 

"Well.  I  certainly  noticed  Miss  June  seemed  rather  all 
over  the  place,  and " 

"One  minute,"  said  Eliphalet,  steering  into  the  middle 
of  the  group. 

Mr.  Dawson  turned. 

"We  are  rather  busy,"  he  began. 

"And  so  am  I,"  said  Eliphalet,  "and  my  business  won't 
wait."  Then,  addressing  Kenneth  Luke,  "Now,  you — put 
up  your  hands." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Put  them  up.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  thrashing.  Do 
you  understand  that?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  replied  Kenneth  insolently.  "And  what 
the  devil  are  you  interfering  for?" 

"For  the  pleasure  of  doing  that,"  said  Eliphalet,  and  hit 
him  with  surprising  vigour  on  the  end  of  the  nose. 

"Damn!"  roared  the  youngster,  and  drew  back  his  arm 
with  intention  of  countering.  But  somehow  it  entangled 
in  his  cloak  and  before  he  had  freed  it,  Eliphalet  had 
pranced  in  and  rained  upon  him  a  veritable  tornado  of 
blows.  More  by  luck  than  judgment  one  of  them  took 
Kenneth  on  the  point  of  the  jaw,  and  put  him  to  sleep 
behind  a  curtain  of  falling  stars. 

"I  say!  whatever  is  all  this  about?"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Dawson. 

"A — piece  of — just  retribution  and  N-nemesis.  Tell  him, 
my  dear — I — I'm " 

Then  very  gracefully,  as  he  was  graceful  in  all  things, 
Eliphalet  Cardomay  tottered  and  collapsed  across  the  body 
of  his  prostrate  foe. 

It  is  not  a  wise  proceeding  for  a  man  on  the  wrong  side 
of  sixty  to  engage  in  a  rough-and-tumble.  The  results  are 


MORNICE   JUNE  175 

apt  to  produce  cardiac  disturbances.  The  doctor,  who  was 
called  in,  said  afterwards  there  was  a  time  when  he  doubted 
whether  Mr.  Cardomay's  heart  was  equal  to  the  task  of 
adjusting  itself.  Certainly  the  old  actor  was  in  a  sorry  way 
when  he  was  placed  in  Mr.  Deansgate's  private  brougham 
and  driven  off  to  Camden  Town  under  the  guardianship  of 
a  very  anxious  Mornice.  She  had  explained  how  the  cir- 
cumstances came  about,  and  Mr.  Deansgate  sent  a  polite 
request  to  Kenneth  Luke  to  call  at  his  office  before  leaving. 

The  result  of  this  interview  was  significantly  betrayed  by 
the  presence  of  Kenneth  Luke's  "card"  in  the  following 
Thursday's  issue  of  the  Daily  Telegraph,  with  the  words 
"At  Liberty"  following  his  name. 

Mornice  and  the  landlady  put  Eliphalet  to  bed  and  tucked 
him  in  as  though  he  were  a  child.  He  complained  of  being 
thirsty  and  very  tired,  and  hardly  seemed  aware  of  his 
surroundings. 

"I  shan't  leave  him  to-night,"  whispered  Mornice.  "Per- 
haps you'd  give  me  a  comfy  chair,  Ma  dear,  then  I  can 
watch  restfully." 

And  as  the  good  Mrs.  Albion  liked  being  addressed  as 
"Ma  dear,"  she  produced  her  best  armchair  (a  forbidding 
affair  of  varnished  walnut,  American  cloth  and  brass-headed 
nails),  and  set  it  beside  the  bed.  She  also  put  a  match  to 
the  fire  and,  on  the  principle  of  "If  you're  not  going  to 
sleep,  you  must  eat,"  cooked  up  "a  bit  o'  supper."  She 
did  not  leave  the  room  until  satisfied  that  Mornice  had 
done  justice  to  the  grilled  herring  and  jug  of  hot  coffee. 
Then  she  gave  her  a  "nice"  kiss  and  a  whispered  good  night. 

Mornice  lowered  the  gas,  and,  taking  Eliphalet's  hand, 
sat  beside  him. 

The  Old  Card  was  very  restless,  and  rambled  in  his  mind 


176  THE    OLD    CARD 

and  speech.  Fragments  of  disjointed  sentences  and  long 
out-of-use  quotations  came  from  his  lips.  Once  he  snatched 
away  his  hand  and  cried  "Put  them  up!" 

Very  gently  Mornice  soothed  him  and  regained  his  hand. 

"I'm  sure  I  was  right — a  blackguard,"  muttered  Eliphalet. 
"And  she  little  more  than  a  child — clever — dear  child!  With 
a  little  training,  a  little  care — 'Have  you  a  daughter?  Let 
her  not  walk  in  the  sun.'  I've  no  daughter — no  child — 
nothing.  That's  so,  old  boy;  that's  so." 

"Ssh!"  whispered  Mornice.  "You  must  go  to  sleep.  Ssh!" 

"Who's  that?"    He  spoke  in  a  startled  tone. 

"It's  me — Mornice." 

"  'Me,  Mornice' — No — 'I,'  Mornice,  'I' — a  little  training 
— a  little  guidance."  His  voice  trailed  away  into  silence. 

When  next  he  spoke  it  was  to  ask: 

"What's  the  time?" 

"Three  o'clock." 

"Three  at  night — and  that  was  a  woman's  voice,  I  don't 
understand.  Who  are  you?" 

She  told  him  again. 

"Three  o'clock  at  night — No,  not  Mornice — you're 
Blanche — poor  old  Blanche!  And  yet  so  much  seems  to 
have  happened  since — and  Blanche — I  don't  know!" 

Mornice  started  violently. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  Blanche?" 

The  quick  sound  of  her  voice  roused  the  old  man  from 
his  wanderings,  for  he  turned,  rose  on  his  elbow,  and  looked 
at  her. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  dear?"  he  said.  "Why  are  you 
here?" 

"You've  been  ill,"  she  replied.    "Don't  you  remember?" 

"Ah,  yes,  yes,  I  remember  now." 


MORNICE   JUNE  177 

"Tell  me,"  she  begged.  "A  moment  ago  you  called  me 
Blanche." 

"I  did! — good  God,  yes!  That's  where  the  resemblance 
lies." 

"Who  were  you  speaking  of?" 

"Blanche  Cannon.  Before  you  were  bora  she  was  my 
wife." 

"But  she  is  my  mother.    Then  am  I ?" 

Eliphalet  had  taken  her  hands  and  was  looking  at  her 
with  wide-opened  eyes. 

"How  I  wish  you  were!"  he  said.  "But  you  came  after, 
my  dear." 

"Then,"  said  Mornice  very  positively  but  very  tenderly, 
"whether  I  am,  or  whether  I'm  not,  whether  you  like  it 
or  whether  you  don't,  I'm  going  to  be  your  daughter — See!" 
And  she  kissed  him  as  a  daughter  should. 

At  the  theatre  a  week  later  the  Lady  of  the  Lorgnettes 
addressed  She  of  the  Neuralgia. 

"My  dear,"  she  said.  "Have  you  heard  the  news?  That 
Mr.  Cardomay  has  taken  that  Miss  Something-or-other 
June  to  live  with  him.  Really,  it  is  extraordinary  what 
these  stage  people  will  do." 

And  She  of  the  Neuralgia  was  constrained  to  take  two 
aspirins  in  rapid  succession  to  recover  from  the  tidings, 
while  the  Lady  of  the  Lorgnettes  turned  aside  to  con- 
gratulate that  Mr.  Cardomay  on  his  speedy  recovery. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  REVERSIBLE  FAVOUR 

A  CERTAIN  old  actor,  whose  spirit  had  passed  above 
the  flies,  once  remarked,  referring  to  "Hamlet,"  "This 
delightful  profession  of  ours  is  ruined  by  perennial  pro- 
ductions of  that  most  gloomy  play." 

Such  an  observation  is,  of  course,  indefensible,  neverthe- 
less the  magnetic  charms  of  "Hamlet"  are,  to  a  certain 
extent,  margined.  Without  exception  it  delights  the  actor 
who  plays  the  title-role,  and  almost  without  exception  it 
fails  to  delight  those  members  of  the  cast  who  play  the 
minor  parts.  Another  section  of  the  dramatic  world  who 
eye  this  drama  askance  are  those  indispensable  gentlemen 
whose  money  is  reposed  in  theatrical  enterprise. 

A  syndicate,  as  a  rule,  is  composed  of  unemotional  per- 
sons, whose  love  of  art  is  subordinated  to  a  love  of  profit, 
and  with  this  aim  in  view  they  are  apt  to  rebel  against  the 
devotion  of  their  capital  to  presentations  of  Shakespearian 
masterpieces. 

This,  in  fact,  was  what  occurred  when  Eliphalet  Cardomay 
gravely  announced  this  intention  at  the  Round  Table  of  his 
Supporters.  His  appearance  in  town  in  the  character  of 
The  Ghost  inspired  the  idea,  and  he  had  thought  it  over 
very  carefully  and  decided  it  was  good.  Little  Mornice 
June  was  to  appear  as  Ophelia — a  revival  of  "The  Night 

178 


A   REVERSIBLE    FAVOUR         179 

Cry"  would  be  postponed,  and  it  only  remained  to  impart 
his  intentions  to  the  four  commercial  gentlemen  who  com- 
posed his  syndicate  and  receive  their  sanction  and  blessing. 

"You  will  agree,"  he  said,  "to  an  actor  of  my  calibre  a 
career  cannot  be  regarded  as  complete  if  he  has  failed  to 
appear  as  the  Moody  Dane.  We  have  been  in  the  best 
accord  in  our  past  dealings,  and  I  am  confident  of  your 
approval  in  this  matter." 

For  a  while  no  one  spoke.  Mr.  Albert  Shingle,  owner  of 
a  large  Drapery  Emporium,  with  branches  in  several  Mid- 
land towns,  looked  furtively  at  Mr.  Thomas  Combermare, 
dealer  in  dry-goods.  But  Mr.  Combermare  only  picked  his 
teeth  with  a  tram-ticket  and  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  so  much,"  said  Mr.  Shingle,  at  last, 
expanding  his  globular  waistcoat.  "What  do  you  say,  Mr. 
Wardluke?"  The  gentleman  appealed  to  was  a  retired 
doctor,  who  had  done  extremely  well  by  opening  small 
surgeries  in  the  poorer  parts  of  Bradford. 

"I'd  like  to  agree  with  Mr.  Cardomay,"  he  said,  "for, 
on  the  whole,  he  has  done  extremely  well  by  us — but — 
well — 'Hamlet.'  You  see  what  I  mean?  One  must  consider 
the  public."  He  put  a  pencil  in  his  ear,  stethoscope  fashion, 
as  though  seeking  to  learn  how  the  heart-beats  of  the 
multitude  responded  to  so  extreme  a  test. 

"I  am  all  against  it — all  against  it." 

It  was  an  angular  little  man  who  spoke.  His  name  was 
Wilfred  Wilfur,  and  he  had  inherited  more  money  than 
his  talents  would  have  earned.  His  own  opinions  he  valued 
highly,  and  was  alone  in  this  respect. 

"We  are  here  to  make  money — make  it,  Mr.  Cardomay, 
make  money — not  to  lose.  Now  I,  personally — and  I  sup- 
pose I  count — I'm  one  of  the  public,  you  know — I  don't 


180  THE    OLD    CARD 

like  'Hamlet.'  I've  never  read  it — never  seen  it — and  I 
don't  like  it." 

"I  am  suggesting,"  said  Eliphalet,  patiently,  "that  in 
this  case  you  consult  my  views  rather  than  your  own.  On 
examining  past  records  I  find  you  have  never  made  less 
than  eight  per  cent,  each  year  on  the  capital  I  have  con- 
trolled; in  many  cases  far  more.  This  justifies  me,  I  think, 
in  demanding  a  certain  latitude  of  action." 

"That's  not  business,  Cardomay,"  said  Mr.  Shingle. 
"That's  sentiment,  that  is,  and  sentiment's  no  good.  I  put 
you  a  plain  straightforward  question.  Which'd  make  most 
money— 'Hamlet'  or  'The  Night  Cry?'  " 

"Money  is  not  the  only  consideration." 

"It  is  with  us — it  is  with  us,"  chirped  Mr.  Wilfur  ex- 
citedly. 

Eliphalet  fidgeted  with  his  cane. 

"Financially,  in  all  probability,  'The  Night  Cry'  would 
show  better  receipts,  but " 

"Exactly.  Then  that  settles  it — we  will  put  up  'The 
Night  Cry.' " 

Eliphalet  compressed  his  lips  and  rose. 

"It  is  not  settled  so  easily,"  he  remarked. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  their  mutual  association  there 
was  a  scene. 

It  was  decided  if  Eliphalet  desired  to  retain  their  services 
he  must  adjust  his  views  to  theirs.  He,  as  a  counter,  pro- 
duced precisely  the  same'  terms,  and  the  result  was  a 
lock-out.  Art  versus  Commerce.  The  meeting  broke  up 
with  generally  distributed  feelings  of  grievance  and  dis- 
satisfaction. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  took  some  rooms  in  Trafford  Park 
and  sat  down  to  wait  until  such  a  time  as  they  should 


I 

A   REVERSIBLE   FAVOUR         181 

realise  their  folly  and  withdraw  the  opposition  to  his 
demands. 

He  was  never  really  happy  when  not  working,  and  even 
the  pleasant  companionship  of  Mornice  failed  to  dispel  the 
gloom  of  the  days  that  followed.  They  were  both  bitterly 
disappointed.  He  at  the  lack  of  faith  shown  by  his  syndi- 
cate, and  she  at  losing  her  first  chance  of  a  big  part. 

It  had  hurt  Eliphalet  more  than  he  believed  possible  to 
break  the  news  to  her  after  the  meeting. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  she  had  said.  "I  should  have  been 
very  dud  as  Ophelia.  Anyway,  I  shall  be  in  'The  Night 
Cry,'  shan't  I?" 

When  he  told  her  "The  Night  Cry"  was  indefinitely 
postponed,  her  distress  was  evident. 

Mornice  was  wholly  centred  in  getting  on,  and  sitting 
idle  in  the  Trafford  Park  lodgings  was  almost  more  than 
she  could  endure.  Very  discreetly  she  hinted  at  being 
allowed  to  try  for  a  Cinema  engagement  to  fill  in,  but  on 
that  subject  Eliphalet  was  severe  in  his  disapproval. 

"Cinematograph  acting  is  not  art,"  he  would  say.  "Trust 
me,  and  sooner  or  later  you  shall  have  your  chance.  My 
syndicate  will  come  to  their  senses  before  long." 

And  the  weeks  dragged  by,  but  no  word  was  received 
from  Messrs.  Shingle,  Wardluke,  Wilfur  and  Combermare. 

He  made  an  effort  to  find  a  new  syndicate,  but  oddly 
enough  no  one  rose  to  the  fly.  Then  Mornice  approached 
the  subject  again  on  different  lines. 

"It's  all  nonsense,"  she  said.  "I'm  costing  you  a  fearful 
lot."  (This  was  not  strictly  true,  for  their  weekly  bills 
rarely  exceeded  two  pounds.)  "And  there's  not  the  slightest 
reason  why  I  should.  Do  let  me  try  and  get  a  teeny  part  in 
a  film.  There  are  two  companies  in  Manchester,  now,  and 


182  THE   OLD   CARD 

if  you  give  me  an  introduction  I'm  sure  they'd  have  me." 

Eliphalet  refused,  but  worried  over  the  matter  exceedingly. 
After  all,  he  had  promised  to  help  her,  and  instead  he  had 
done  nothing  beyond  the  entertainment  of  his  own  society 
and  the  provision  of  a  very  bread-and-butter  existence.  He 
reflected  that  she  must  be  considering  herself  worse  off  now 
than  before  they  had  met,  and  was  probably  reproaching 
the  impetuosity  that  led  her  to  play  the  part  of  daughter 
to  an  old  man.  It  was  not  fair  she  should  be  pilloried  on 
his  account.  So  he  lay  awake  at  night  and  sought  for  a 
solution  and  when  he  found  a  way  to  make  good  his  promise 
he  set  about  it  with  characteristic  zeal.  From  the  bottom  of 
a  theatrical  basket  he  produced  a  bundle  of  old  plays — 
Veterans  of  the  Road,  with  expired  copyrights.  These  he 
sorted  over,  collected  half-a-dozen,  and  dropped  them  into 
Mornice's  lap. 

"Read  them  carefully,"  he  said,  "and  tell  me  which  one 
you  would  like  to  play  the  most." 

In  great  excitement  Moraice  read  them  all,  and  decided 
on  a  play  of  the  "Sweet  Nancy"  order. 

"Good!    You  shall  play  it." 

The  next  move  was  to  secure  a  few  bookings  from  small 
Number  2  towns.  This  proved  rather  difficult,  since  he 
offered  old  material  and  an  unknown  cast,  but  by  accepting 
very  low  terms  the  dates  were  secured.  A  company  was 
engaged,  some  stock  scenery  hired,  and  three  weeks  later 
Miss  Mornice  June,  flushed  and  triumphant,  was  starring 
in  the  "Smalls,"  in  a  comedy  "Presented  by  Mr.  Eliphalet 
Cardomay." 

Presented  was  an  appropriate  word,  since  the  receipts 
were  so  infinitesimal  that  it  cost  Eliphalet  about  fifteen 
pounds  a  week  to  keep  the  tour  running. 


A   REVERSIBLE   FAVOUR         183 

As  he  was  earning  no  salary  at  the  time,  he  moved  to  a 
humbler  lodging  off  the  Palatine  Road,  and  there  continued 
the  silent  and  unsuccessful  freezing  out  of  his  syndicate. 

There  was  no  real  occasion  for  Eliphalet  to  economise  to 
the  extent  he  was  doing,  for  his  banking  account  showed 
a  comfortable  credit  (fruit  of  many  years'  saving).  To  do 
so,  however,  was  no  great  privation,  for  the  provincial  actor 
knows  better  than  any  other  man  how  to  live,  and  live  well, 
on  nothing  a  week.  Better  circumstances  had  brought  little 
change  in  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  mode  of  life.  Joints  ap- 
peared on  the  table  with  great  frequency,  perhaps,  and  he 
did  not  deny  himself  a  dish  of  crumpets  when  the  bell  of 
the  muffin-man  sounded  in  the  street.  But  these  little  extras 
he  now  excised,  and  gave  further  outward  evidence  of 
poverty  by  walking  the  streets  with  melancholy  mien. 

He  missed  his  Art  and  missed  Mornice,  and  altogether 
he  was  ill-content.  The  delights  of  prominence  so  obsessed 
Miss  Mornice  that  letter-writing,  after  the  first  week,  showed 
a  pathetic  decline.  He  had  to  satisfy  himself  with  postcards 
of  which  "Having  a  lovely  time — You  are  a  dear"  was  a 
fair  sample. 

One  day  when  meandering  down  Oxford  Road,  Eliphalet 
was  heartily  accosted  by  another  old  actor  of  the  name 
Sefton  Bulmore.  Bulmore  had  once  been  a  popular  come- 
dian, but  had  lost  much  of  his  hold  upon  the  public.  After 
eking  out  a  precarious  existence  with  special  performances 
and  short  tours,  he  had  the  good  forune  to  obtain  some 
fairly  regular  work  with  Eastlake's  Exclusive  Cinema  Com- 
pany, and  had  given  them  satisfaction. 

He  was  a  breezy,  go-as-you-please  old  fellow,  who  would 
borrow  a  shilling  or  lend  you  a  pound  with  equal  good- 
nature. 


184  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Hullo,  Cardomay!  Dear  old  boy,  old  man — how's 
things?"  he  hailed.  "You  don't  look  too  grand.  Haven't 
seen  your  poster  about  lately.  Where  are  you  showing 
now?" 

"I  am  not,  at  the  moment,"  replied  Eliphalet.  "But 
won't  you  step  along  and  take  a  cup  of  tea?" 

As  they  walked  toward  the  lodging  Sefton  Bulmore  did 
most  of  the  talking,  but  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  cast- 
ing sidelong  glances  at  his  companion. 

"Must  have  come  a  cropper  somehow,"  he  reflected. 

The  sight  of  Eliphalet's  very  humble  apartment  and  the 
modest  fare  offered  strengthened  this  impression.  Discreetly 
as  possible  he  tried  to  discover  how  matters  stood,  but  his 
masked  inquiries  failed  to  produce  the  required  information. 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  along,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a 
hearty  hand-shake.  As  he  touched  the  handle  of  the  door 
an  idea  flashed  into  his  brain,  and  he  turned: 

"Just  occurred  to  me — I've  come  out  without  any  ready. 
You  might  lend  me  a  couple  of  ten  shillings." 

Eliphalet  hesitated.  "I  haven't  so  much  on  me,"  he 
answered,  "but  I  daresay " 

"Lord  love  you,  I  don't  want  it — only  a  joke — pulling 
your  leg,  that's  all.  Ha!  Well!  Must  be  going,  old  man. 
Bye-bye." 

Sefton  Bulmore  had  learnt  what  he  wanted  to  know — 
or  thought  he  had.  As  he  walked  down  the  street  he 
muttered  to  himself: 

"Teh,  tch!  Bad  business!  Poor  old  Card!  Tch-tch. 
Getting  old — losing  ground — hipped — stony!" 

On  the  stage,  more  perhaps  than  in  any  other  calling, 
there  exists  a  wonderful  unity  and  fellowship.  You  will 
never  appeal  in  vain  for  help  for  one  player  to  another. 


A   REVERSIBLE    FAVOUR         185 

The  hat  that  goes  round  empty  is  always  filled  before 
returning. 

Sefton  Bulmore  worried  over  Eliphalet  Cardomay  all 
night,  and  the  liberal  supply  of  whisky  he  absorbed  failed 
to  dispel  his  anxieties.  It  would  be  no  good  offering  money, 
even  if  he  had  it  to  offer,  for  the  Old  Card  was  far  too 
proud  to  accept  charity.  He  would  have  to  devise  some 
means  of  helping  him,  and,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  he  meant  to 
do  so.  The  opportunity  arose  sooner  than  he  expected,  for 
the  very  next  morning  brought  an  offer  by  post  from 
Eastlake's  Exclusives  of  a  long  part  in  a  Three-Reel  Drama, 
and  the  terms  proposed  were  thirty  guineas. 

Then  Sefton  Bulmore  knew  that  his  prayer  had  been 
answered,  and  rejoiced.  He  donned  his  brightest  clothes, 
swallowed  a  hasty  Guinness,  and  sallied  forth  to  interview 
Mr.  Eastlake  of  the  Movies. 

"Ha,  Bulmore!"  that  gentleman  greeted  him.  "So  you 
got  our  letter,  eh?  Going  to  accept?" 

"Sorry,"  replied  Bulmore,  "very  sorry,  old  boy,  but  I 
can't." 

"What's  the  trouble?    Terms?" 

"Busy,  old  man;  busy." 

"That's  all  rot.  You're  just  the  man  I  want,  and  I  don't 
know  where  to  find  another  if  you  turn  us  down." 

"Turn  you  down!  Wouldn't  do  it.  Matter  of  fact,  I 
am  making  you  a  present  by  refusing.  'Cause  I  can  put 
you  on  to  a  fine  proposition  straight  away." 

"You  can?" 

"Yes,  and  fix  details  ac  dum" 

"Well,  let's  have  it,"  said  Eastlake  a  shade  warily. 

Sefton  Bulmore  cast  a  suspicious  eye  round  the  office, 
as  though  about  to  expose  a  secret  of  awful  moment. 


186  THE   OLD   CARD 

"What  would  you  say  to  Eliphalet  Cardomay?" — he  had 
dropped  his  voice  to  a  penetrating  whisper. 

"Who?" 

"Eliphalet  Cardomay." 

"Never  heard  of  him." 

"Never — what?  Come,  come,  old  man,  old  boy,  that's 
too  rich.  But  you  can't  be  born  yet  if  you  haven't  heard 
of  him." 

"I  may  have  heard  the  name,  but  not  in  our  line  of 
business.  What  about  him,  anyway?" 

"Only  this — I  can — get — him — to — play — the — part.  Now 
then!" 

Mr.  Eastlake  did  not  appear  half  so  impressed  as  he 
should  have  been. 

"Hum!"  he  remarked.    "Would  he  be  any  use?" 

Bulmore  cast  his  eyes  ceiling-ward  in  mute  despair. 

"Use!  Now  look  here,  old  boy,  I  tell  you  frankly,  if 
you  are  going  to  play  round  with  the  notion  I  shall  call 
it  off." 

"Well,  what's  he  doing  now?" 

"Resting." 

"At  liberty— eh?" 

"No,  resting;  and  there's  a  big  difference  between  the 
two.  Resting  means  you  are  not  acting  because  you  don't 
want  to  act.  At  liberty  means  you  want  to  act,  and  would 
at  any  price,  but  can't.  Got  it?" 

"I  see.    Well,  send  him  along,  and  I'll  look  him  over." 

"You  don't  understand — you  don't  know  what  you're 
saying,  old  man.  Why,  he  wouldn't  walk  to  the  end  of  the 
street  to  look  for  jobs,  for  the  simple  reason  that  half  the 
town  is  coming  his  way  to  offer  'em." 

"Like  that,  eh?    Well,  I  suppose  I  must  take  your  word, 


A   REVERSIBLE   FAVOUR         187 

Bulmore,  and  risk  it.  For  your  sake  I  hope  he  doesn't  let 
us  down,  that's  all.  What's  he  like,  now — is  he  funny?" 

Bulmore  stretched  his  imagination  to  the  fullest. 

"You  should  just  hear  them  shriek  at  him." 

"And  about  terms?    Would  he  take  a  bit  less?" 

"That's  the  one  difficulty,  old  man.  I  mentioned  what 
you'd  said,  but  he  held  out  that  thirty-five  guineas  was  the 
lowest  he'd  accept." 

"Well,  it's  the  highest  we'd  pay.    Tell  him  that." 

"Well,  we'll  let  it  go  at  thirty-five,  and  if  you've  a  sheet 
of  paper  handy  I'll  sign  an  acceptance  form  on  his  behalf." 

Sefton  Bulmore's  cherrywood  cane,  which  he  spun  in  his 
hand  as  he  went  whistling  down  the  street,  was  a  peril  to 
the  neighbourhood.  He  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  op- 
pressed in  the  smallest  degree  that  he  had  turned  over  to 
his  friend  a  sum  of  money  of  which  he  was  in  great  personal 
need.  He  felt  himself  amply  repaid  by  having  brought 
the  interview  to  so  successful  a  conclusion.  Great  is  the 
balm  descending  upon  him  that  giveth. 

Without  losing  any  time  he  hastened  to  inform  his  old 
colleague  of  the  news,  and  with  truly  dramatic  sense  did 
not  dull  the  point  by  approaching  it  too  directly. 

He  found  Eliphalet  Cardomay  taking  a  modest  luncheon, 
and  sat  down  to  join  him  without  waiting  for  an  invitation. 

"Doesn't  seem  right  to  see  you  out  of  harness,"  he  began, 
his  mouth  well  filled  with  cheese  and  pickles.  "What's 
more,  I  can't  believe  it  agrees  with  you." 

"One  feels  the  difference,  of  course,"  Eliphalet  con- 
fessed. "However,  it  is  my  own  choice." 

Bulmore  took  this  statement  as  a  piece  of  pardonable 
pride. 

"Still,  I  wonder  you  don't  do  something  as  a  fill-in.    Now, 


188  THE    OLD    CARD 

there's  quite  a  decent  income  waiting  to  be  picked  up  with 
the  Cinema,  y'know." 

"The  Cinema!"  Eliphalet's  eyebrows  arched  disapprov- 
ingly. 

"That's  it.  Growing  concern,  old  man,  getting  a  bigger 
hold  on  the  public  every  day." 

"The  mushroom  season  is  a  short  one,"  commented 
Eliphalet  drily. 

"Well,  they  both  do  best  in  the  dark,"  said  Bulmore, 
with  a  laugh.  "But  the  Cinema  has  come  to  stay,  laddie, 
mark  my  words;  and  it's  up  to  you  and  me  to  have  a  dip 
in  the  pie." 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  rose  and  assumed  a  position  of 
importance  by  the  fireplace. 

"It  is  up  to  you  and  me,  and  all  those  who  treasure  the 
traditions  of  our  noble  calling,  to  manifest  our  disapproval 
of  this  mechanical  device  for — what  shall  I  say? — for  pot- 
ting our  artistry,  by  leaving  it  severely  alone." 

Bulmore,  who  was  expecting  his  old  friend  to  embrace 
the  opportunity  he  had  come  to  offer,  was  wholly  unpre- 
pared for  so  hostile  an  attitude.  He  kicked  himself,  meta- 
phorically, for  introducing  the  subject  in  this  roundabout 
way  instead  of  walking  straight  up  and  saying,  "You're 
broke,  old  man;  here's  a  job  for  you."  But  having  chosen 
his  means  he  had  no  other  course  but  to  continue  on  the 
lines  of  his  beginning. 

"Agreed,"  he  said.  "Still,  there  are  times  when  we  must 
tone  down  our  ideals  a  bit  and  take  what  pickings  lie  around. 
Matter  of  fact,  I  was  talking  to  Eastlake  this  morning — 
Eastlake's  Exclusives,  y'know — and  he  gave  me  to  under- 
stand he'd  be  very  glad  of  your  services." 

"I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  the  gentleman,  Bulmore,  but 


A   REVERSIBLE   FAVOUR         189 

my  views  on  this  subject  are  too  pronounced  to  allow  me 
to  relax  them  on  his  account." 

This  was  pride  with  a  vengeance,  thought  Bulmore,  and 
he  stumbled  badly. 

"Money's  good,"  he  said.  "Thirty-five  pounds  for  two 
weeks'  work  can't  be  sneezed  at,  y'know." 

"If  I  allowed  money  to  influence  me,"  responded  Eli- 
phalet,  "I  would  never  be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  again." 

"But — Well!  I  mean — I  hardly  know  what  to  say  next, 
old  man." 

"Say  nothing.  We  have  so  many  topics  in  common,  it 
is  a  pity  to  pursue  one  in  which  we  are  at  variance." 

Bulmore  ran  his  fingers  through  his  thin  hair. 

"It's  this  way,  old  man,"  he  said.  "You — you'd  be  doing 
me  a  real  favour  by  accepting  this  shop — a  real  favour  to 
me." 

"Forgive  me  asking,  but  how  can  that  be?" 

This  was  clearly  a  moment  for  invention,  and  Bulmore 
wrestled  with  his  ingenuity  before  answering,  and  finally 
produced: 

"Because  I  want  to  make  a  favourable  impression  with 
the  firm.  If  they  saw  I  was  a  friend  of  yours,  it'ud  do  me 
a  piece  of  good." 

"But  why  not  ask  for  the  part  yourself?"  suggested 
Eliphalet,  by  no  means  displeased  with  the  compliment. 

"I  did,  but  they  won't  have  me.  They  are  dead-set  on 
you,  and  no  one  else  will  do.  Now,  as  a  pal " 

"No,"  replied  Eliphalet  firmly;  "it  is  asking  too  much 
of  friendship.  Please  let  us  drop  the  subject." 

Then  Bulmore  played  his  last  card. 

"If  you  refuse,  you'll  do  for  me  absolutely,  because — 


THE   OLD    CARD 

well,  I — I  made  'em  a  solemn  promise  in  your  name  that 
you'd  take  it." 

"Surely  not!" 

"I  did,  old  man — and  signed  a  contract  for  you  into  the 
bargain." 

For  a  moment  Eliphalet's  indignation  was  too  great  for 
expression.  He  took  several  turns  up  and  down  the  little 
room,  tossing  his  head  and  ejaculating  "tchas"  of  displeas- 
ure. 

"Too  badl  Too  bad  altogether.  After  all  these  years, 
Bulmore!  You  should  have  known  me  better!  To  prosti- 
tute my  art  in  this  way!  Too — too  badl" 

"I've  done  it  now,"  muttered  Bulmore,  with  hanging 
head.  "And  I  suppose  you'll  do  me?" 

There  was  pathos  in  every  line  of  the  little  man's  figure, 
for  he  could  act  very  realistically  when  he  chose.  Eliphalet 
saw,  and  could  not  ignore,  the  silent  appeal.  With  an 
effort  he  walked  over  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  bent  shoulders. 

"And  you  should  know  me  better  than  to  think  that," 
he  said.  "I  never  go  back  on  my  friends,  whatever  the  cost. 
You  may  tell  Mr.  Eastlake  I  am  pleased  to  accept  his  offer. 
And  now  let  us  say  no  more  about  it." 

As  Bulmore  walked  down  the  street  there  was  no  swinging 
cane  to  mark  the  gaiety  of  his  mood.  He  felt  bruised  and 
disappointed.  The  affair  had  turned  out  so  differently  from 
expectations. 

Sefton  Bulmore,  in  fact,  was  suffering,  as  so  many  others 
have  suffered,  from  doing  a  good  turn  without  positively 
labelling  it  as  a  good  turn  beforehand. 

"I  would  have  liked  him  to  have  been  pleased,"  he 
murmured.  "But  he'll  earn  the  money,  and  that's  what 
matters" 


I 
A   REVERSIBLE   FAVOUR         191 

The  open  doors  of  the  Lion  lured  him  to  enter.  In  the 
saloon  he  met  an  acquaintance,  and  touched  him  for  ten 
bob  and  a  cigar. 

***** 

There  are  peculiar  qualities  required  in  film-acting  to 
obtain  good  results.  Being  denied  speech  as  a  means  of 
expression,  you  are  forced  to  seek  other  alternatives.  Facial 
expression  and  gesture  will  not  suffice.  There  remains  but 
one  solution — you  must  think  right.  Do  this,  or,  in  other 
words,  let  your  thoughts  be  in  accord  with  the  scene  you 
are  required  to  play,  and  you  will  find  automatically  all  the 
emotions  will  have  portrayed  themselves.  Also  you  must 
have  a  good  nerve,  for  to  many  the  rotation  of  the  oper- 
ator's hand  and  the  precise  tick-tick-tick  of  the  camera 
produce  an  even  more  disconcerting  effect  than  does  a  first- 
night  audience. 

If  you  are  fearless,  clear-brained  and  receptive,  put  on 
your  best  bib  and  tucker,  and  sally  forth  to  Wardour 
Street,  the  G.H.Q.  of  Filmland,  for  there  a  fortune  is 
awaiting  you. 

To  a  certain  extent  Eliphalet  Cardomay  thought  right, 
and  his  actions  were  always  graceful;  but  he  could  not 
conquer  embarrassment  of  the  camera.  His  performance 
was  marred  by  nervousness,  and  nervousness  shows  with 
alarming  fidelity  on  the  screen.  From  this  cause  many 
promising  scenes  had  to  be  re-taken  again  and  again,  and 
the  producer,  an  American  who  savoured  of  pistols  and  the 
Wild  West,  danced  in  indignation. 

"I  ask  you,  Mr.  Cardomay,"  he  implored,  "not  to  look 
at  the  camera  as  if  it  were  loaded.  We're  trying  to  get 
stuff  into  the  machine,  and  not  out  of  it.  Now,  once  again, 
please.  Ready,  Cable?  Go,  then!" 


192  THE   OLD    CARD 

The  operator  would  start  to  turn,  Eliphalet  to  enter,  and 
the  producer  to  talk,  all  at  the  same  time. 

"Down  stage  a  little,  please.  That'll  do.  Take  out  your 
penknife — cut  the  string  so.  Raise  your  chin — a  little  more, 
more — don't  look  at  me!" 

Then  Eliphalet  would  throw  down  the  penknife  and 
exclaim: 

"I  really  cannot  act  if  you  will  talk." 

"Stop  turning,  Cable.  There  goes  another  eighty  feet. 
Now  why  in  hell  did  you  leave  off?  Pardon  my  language, 
but  oblige  me  with  an  answer." 

"I  cannot  act  if  you  talk." 

"I'm  here  to  talk — wouldn't  be  a  film  if  I  didn't.  How 
can  you  hope  to  keep  the  audience  from  beating  it  unless 
I  put  a  bit  of  variety  in  your  positions?" 

"But  your  talking  interferes  with  my  acting." 

"Don't  want  you  to  act.  Want  you  to  cut  the  string 
of  a  parcel  and  put  the  knife  back  in  your  pocket.  You 
wouldn't  have  straw  down  on  the  sidewalk  before  your 
villa,  if  you  were  doing  that  at  home." 

Eliphalet  was  mortally  offended,  and  only  loyalty  to  his 
old  friend  prevented  him  from  throwing  up  the  engagement. 

Considering  the  ceaseless  irritations  he  was  subjected  to, 
his  behaviour  throughout  was  exemplary. 

It  was  in  the  comic  scenes  he  appeared  at  his  worst. 
Seeing  no  humour  in  them  himself,  he  registered  nothing 
beyond  the  suggestion  of  outraged  dignity  upon  the  film. 

When  Mr.  Eastlake  saw  Eliphalet's  comedy — for  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  having  the  day's  work  projected  for  his 
approval  each  evening  on  a  miniature  screen — he  was  ex- 
ceeding wroth.  Consequently  he  visited  the  studio  next 
morning  and  engaged  the  old  actor  in  conversation. 


A   REVERSIBLE    FAVOUR         193 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "your  comedy  is  not  a  strong 
point.  Now,  Bulmore  told  me  you  could  be  screamingly 
funny  when  you  like." 

"Funny!"  echoed  Eliphalet.  "I  have  never  been  funny 
in  my  life." 

"Well,  that's  what  he  told  me,  and  on  the  strength  of  it 
I  made  the  engagement.  Sorry  to  bother  you,  but  if  this 
film  is  to  be  released,  you  really  must  whack  a  bit  of  fun 
into  your  part." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Eliphalet  loftily.  But  'every 
tree  is  known  by  his  own  fruit.  For  of  thorns  men  do  not 
gather  figs,  nor  of  a  bramble-bush  gather  they  grapes.'  "  And 
having  delivered  this  dictum,  he  bowed  and  walked  away. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Eliphalet's  efforts  to  be  funny 
would  have  given  amusement  to  a  village  idiot.  He  was 
frankly  at  sea  with  the  ridiculous — at  sea  in  an  unexplored 
ocean,  and  his  flounderings  were  pitiful  to  behold. 

So  Mr.  Eastlake  and  the  producer  held  a  conference  and 
decided  it  was  useless  to  proceed. 

"We'll  burn  the  lot,"  said  Eastlake.  "Pay  him  off  and 
start  afresh.  That  fellow  Bulmore  fairly  sold  us  a  dog." 

Next  morning  Eliphalet  was  politely  informed  tfiat  his 
services  were  no  longer  required.  No  reasons  were  given, 
nor  any  reproaches  made.  Film  companies  conduct  their 
business  on  business  lines.  There  is  no  "incompetent" 
clause  in  their  contracts.  When  a  performer  has  failed  to 
give  satisfaction,  he  is  paid  in  full,  and  another  is  engaged. 
Eliphalet  received  a  cheque  for  thirty-five  guineas,  and  a 
polite  "Good-day"  from  the  cashier. 

While  he  was  buttoning  his  coat  in  the  hall  he  heard  Mr. 
Eastlake's  voice  sounding  through  his  office  door: 


194  THE    OLD    CARD 

"No,  Bulmore — and  we  are  not  likely  to  have  any  more 
work  for  you  either." 

"But  why,  old  man?  Why?" 

"I  might  ask  you  why — why  you  told  us  those  wonderful 
tales  about  your  clever  friend.  He's  let  us  in  for  a  couple 
of  thousand  feet  that  aren't  worth  the  price  of  fixing  salts." 

"Whew!  That's  bad!  I  thought  he'd  be  all  right — 
straight  I  did." 

"But  why  turn  him  on  to  us  if  you  wanted  the  job 
yourself?" 

There  was  a  pause;  then  Bulmore 's  voice: 

"He  was  dead  broke,  and  I  wanted  to  do  him  a  good 
turn." 

"At  our  expense." 

"And  my  own,  old  man,  by  the  looks  of  it." 

Eliphalet  waited  for  no  more,  but  flushing  for  shame, 
slipped  out  into  the  street  and  hurried  away. 

"I  made  a  favour  of  doing  it,"  he  muttered.  Bulmore's 
money  in  his  pocket  burnt  like  a  hot  coal. 

Awaiting  him  at  home  was  a  statement  of  the  week's 
account  from  the  manager  of  Mornice's  tour.  The  expenses 
were  twenty-two  pounds  in  excess  of  the  takings.  He  also 
received  a  postcard  from  Mornice  saying  she  was  dreadfully 
miserable  that  the  tour  was  finishing  the  following  week, 
but  it  would  be  lovely  to  see  him  again. 

"She'll  never  be  happy  unless  she's  acting,"  he  thought. 

He  wrote  some  figures  on  the  back  of  an  envelope,  figures 
which  showed  that  her  tour  had  realised  a  loss  of  eighty 
pounds.  Eighty  pounds.  He  had  earned  nothing  for  the 
last  ten  weeks  save — and  he  looked  at  the  cheque  for  thirty- 
five  guineas — money  defrauded  from  a  friend,  and  ill-earned 
at  that. 


A   REVERSIBLE   FAVOUR         195 

"This  is  no  good,"  he  argued,  his  thoughts  resting  on 
the  cherished  wish  to  play  'Hamlet.'  "No  good — and  after 
all,  blessed  is  he  that  humbleth  his  pride." 

So  he  sat  down  to  write,  addressing  the  letter  to  Mr. 
Shingles,  Chairman  of  the  Syndicate.  A  reply  was  received 
two  days  later,  and  he  duly  entrained  for  Bradford  to 
attend  the  meeting. 

His  reception  was  chilly. 

"I  have  re-considered  my  views,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "and 
withdraw  my  proviso  with  regard  to  the  'Hamlet'  produc- 
tion." 

"I  knew  we'd  starve  you  out,"  squeaked  Mr.  Wilfur, 
rubbing  his  bony  hands.  "Oh,  yes,  money  always  counts — 
money  wins,  money  does." 

"Not  always,"  said  Eliphalet,  thinking  of  Bulmore.  "With 
some  men  friendship  stands  on  a  higher  plane." 

"Well,  I  may  say,  Cardomay,  that  you  have  strained 
friendship  almost  to  a  breaking-point,"  commented  the  obese 
Mr.  Shingles.  "Here's  half  the  autumn  gone,  and  nothing 
done.  Still,  if  you  have  come  back  admitting  yourself  to 
be  in  fault — well But  what  do  you  say,  Doctor?" 

"No  good  harbouring  ill-feeling.  We  may  as  well  carry 
on,  but  since  we've  lost  so  much  time  and  all  the  best  dates, 
the  question  of  reduced  percentage  asserts  itself,"  said  Mr. 
Wardluke. 

And  thus  the  thin  edge  of  the  wedge  implanted  itself 
daintily  into  the  future  fortunes  of  Eliphalet  Cardomay. 
When  he  left  the  meeting  he  had  lost  ground,  and  what 
was  left  before  him  was  perilously  insecure. 

On  arriving  home  he  sent  a  letter  to  Bulmore  asking  him 
to  supper,  and  spent  the  time  of  waiting  purchasing  and 
laying  out  a  really  sumptuous  spread.  In  his  breast-pocket 


196  THE   OLD   CARD 

there  was  a  bulge  of  banknotes,  representing  the  cashing  of 
Mr.  Eastlake's  cheque. 

"Ha,  ha!"  he  cried  when  old  Bulmore,  looking  rather 
down  and  out,  came  into  the  room.  "Here's  the  man  who 
brought  me  luck.  Congratulate  me,  my  dear  old  fellow, 
for  I  open  again  in  my  own  management  in  a  month's 
time." 

His  tone  rang  with  enthusiasm,  and  all  through  the  meal 
he  held  forth  upon  the  advantageous  terms  he  had  arranged 
with  his  syndicate  and  the  big  success  forecasted  for  the 
play. 

Poor  Sefton  Bulmore  could  hardly  fail  to  feel  rather 
out  in  the  cold,  but  he  did  his  best  to  reflect  the  cheerful 
mood  of  his  host.  The  effort  was  pathetically  transparent, 
however,  as  Eliphalet  noted  with  satisfaction. 

"Yes,  yes,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Bulmore,  I  was  a 
bit  low.  That  thirty-five  guineas  you  put  me  in  the  way 
of  earning  was  a  godsend.  But  now!  they  can't  do  enough 
— insisted  on  my  accepting  a  big  advance."  And  he 
flourished  a  wad  of  notes  before  Bulmore's  hungry  eyes. 

With  all  the  will  in  the  world,  the  old  fellow  could  not 
help  wishing  his  friend  would  be  a  trifle  less  arrogant  about 
his  finances.  It  is  a  severe  test  on  a  man  who  has  nothing 
in  his  pockets  to  resist  envying  one  who  has  so  much, 
especially  when  he  knows  that  but  for  a  flash  of  generosity 
some  of  that  money  would  have  been  his  own. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  might  not  always  have  shown  genius 
in  his  portrayal  of  emotions,  but  he  understood  them  very 
thoroughly,  notwithstanding. 

Eventually  Bulmore  could  endure  the  ordeal  no  longer, 
and  rose  to  take  his  departure.  At  the  hall  door  he  halted 
indecisively,  shuffled  his  feet  and  cleared  his  throat  a  good 


A   REVERSIBLE   FAVOUR         197 

deal,  but  he  said  nothing.  So  Eliphalet  took  the  bull  by 
the  horns. 

"Yes,  I  am  very  grateful  indeed,"  he  repeated  for  the 
twentieth  time,  "and  if  there  is  the  slightest  thing  I  can  do 
for  you  by  way  of  return,  I  shall  take  it  as  unfriendly  if 
you  fail  to  name  it." 

"Thank  ye,"  said  Bulmore  huskily.  "I  won't  forget."  He 
descended  one  step,  then  turned.  "Matter  of  fact,"  he 
admitted  with  rather  a  dry  tongue,  "I  am  just  a  wee  bit 
short  of  ready  at  the  moment,  and  a  sovereign  or  two " 

"Why,  my  dear  old  friend,  I  wouldn't  insult  you  with 
such  a  loan.  Here,  take" — and  he  produced  the  roll  of 
notes — "take  these.  No,  no;  I  insist — please.  There!  that's 
right.  Not  a  word — I  beg  you.  After  all,  we  are  friends, 

and  between  friends But  what  a  moon!  Wonderful 

night — wonderful  night." 

"Old  man!"  said  Bulmore,  wringing  his  hand  in  silent 
gratitude  and  sniffling  suggestively.  "Dear  old  man!" 

For  some  reason  Eliphalet  sniffed  too. 

"We're  a  couple  of  fools,  Bulmore,"  he  said,  at  last; 
"a  couple  of  old  fools." 

"No,  actors,  laddie;  actors." 

"That's  it — actors.  Sometimes  I  think  it  is,  a  very  great 
thing  to  be  an  actor.  Good  night." 

"God  bless  you,  old  man." 

And,  tucking  the  money  in  his  pocket,  he  shuffled  down 
the  street. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DEAR  DEPARTED 

IF  Eliphalet  Cardomay  never  pretended  Mornice  June  was 
his  own  daughter  he  certainly  never  checked  her  from 
calling  him  Father,  or  any  other  such  title  her  fancy  de- 
vised. A  man  on  the  very  wrong  side  of  sixty,  who  has 
never  been  so  called,  finds  the  sound  of  that  name  comes 
very  sweetly  to  his  ears. 

When  he  met  her  at  the  station  on  her  return  from  the 
tour,  she  halloed  "Father"  from  the  carriage  window,  and 
leapt  into  his  arms  before  the  train  had  stopped. 

Usually  Eliphalet  was  a  ceremonious  man  under  the  eye 
of  the  public,  but  on  this  occasion  he  returned  her  embraces 
with  a  warmth  equal  to  her  own. 

"Dear  me!"  he  said,  as  arm-in-arm,  the  gust  of  welcome 
having  subsided,  they  walked  from  the  station.  "Dear  me! 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  I  could  be  so  happy  and  excited. 
I  haven't  been  kissed  on  a  railway  platform  since " 

"When?" 

He  hesitated.    "Oh,  a  very  long  while  ago." 

His  thoughts  strayed  back  over  a  chasm  of  years,  to  the 
time  when  this  girl's  mother,  in  the  first  flights  of  their 
courtship,  embarrassed  him  grievously  by  the  publicity  of 
her  affections. 

"I  was  thinking  of  your  mother,"  he  said  at  last. 

198 


THE   DEAR   DEPARTED          199 

"Oh!"  replied  Mornice,  who  was  hoping  for  a  more 
spirited  confidence. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  "when  I  see  you,  I  sometimes 
wish  I  had  been  a  little  more  tolerant.  It  is  a  wonderful 
possession — a  child  of  one's  own." 

"You  might  not  have  liked  me  so  well,"  said  Mornice 
gaily.  Her  face  took  more  serious  lines.  "I  was  only 
fourteen  when  she  cleared  out  and  left  me  on  my  own — but 
it  wouldn't  have  been  any  good — I  can  see  that.  She 
wasn't  a  bit  nice,  I'm  afraid." 

There  was  a  quality  of  frankness  about  Mornice.  She 
invariably  spoke  her  mind.  A  bad  mother  was  none  the 
better  for  being  her  own.  Mrs.  Harrington  May,  late  Mrs. 
Eliphalet  Cardomay,  n&e,  Blanche  Cannon,  was  not  a  lady 
to  inspire  affection  in  other  than  masculine  hearts,  and  even 
there  not  a  quality  to  endure. 

"Then  you  do  not  miss  your  mother?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"No,"  said  Eliphalet  thoughtfully;  "and  no  more  do  I. 
Well,  well;  I  have  arranged  with  the  syndicate — yes,  I  had 
to  climb  down  about  playing  'Hamlet,'  and  now  we  are 
going  to  put  up  'The  Night  Cry,'  after  all.  The  cast  is 
engaged  and  we  start  rehearsing  here  this  week." 

"Oh,  that's  fine,"  said  Mornice.  Then  with  a  shade  of 
nervousness,  "And  who  have  you  got  to  do  my  part?" 

"Yourself,  of  course." 

"Me?— Oh,  but,  Pummy,  I  can't.  Didn't  I  write  and 
tell  you?  Thought  I  had— at  least,  I  didn't  think  I  had, 
exactly,  but  I  meant  to." 

"Tell  me  what?"  Eliphalet  looked  genuinely  startled. 

"Oh,  Daddy  fatherums,  don't — don't  look  so  serious, 
please.  It's — I Well,  I  met  a  young  man — a  boy — a 


200  THE   OLD    CARD 

gentleman — oh,  yes,  always  the  perfect  gentleman.  No, 
but  he's  a  dear,  really;  I  mean,  he's  awfully  nice  and  very 

clever,  and Well,  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  drag  on  you, 

and  you  never  actually  told  me  you  were  going  to  open,  so 
I  didn't  see  how  I  could  very  well  refuse — could  I?" 

Eliphalet  stopped  dead,  with: 

"Good  God,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Yes.  I  knew  you'd  disapprove,  and  I  knew  if  I  waited 
to  ask  you,  you  wouldn't  let  me;  so  I  took  my  courage  in 
both  hands,  shut  my  eyes,  and  said,  'Yes.'  But  it's  only 
for  six  weeks." 

From  his  tail-pocket  Eliphalet  drew  a  large  silk  handker- 
chief and  mopped  his  brow. 

"What  is  only  for  six  weeks?"  he  managed  to  ask. 

"I  told  you — this  Cinema  engagement,  of  course." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  faintly.  "If  you  don't  mind,  we 
will  go  into  this  dairy  and  take  a  glass  of  milk." 

Not  until  they  had  seated  themselves  at  the  small  marble- 
topped  table,  with  two  china  beakers  of  milk  and  some 
sponge-cakes  on  white  saucers  before  them,  did  he  speak 
again. 

"One  should  never  mystify  one's  audience:  that  is  a  first 
principle  in  our  profession.  Remember  it,  my  dear,  and 
you  will  save  people  from  many  unnecessary  shocks.  Now, 
about  this  engagement?" 

So  Mornice  told  him  how  one  Ronald  Knight,  who  was 
"really  awfully  nice,"  had  seen  her  playing  at  Colwyn  Bay, 
and  had  come  round  "after  the  show"  with  a  most  alluring 
offer. 

"They  are  a  new  firm,  and,  just  think  1  they  are  going 
to  pay  me  a  pound  a  day — and  I'm  to  play  lead  in  the 
film.  Oh,  Daddy  fatherums,  I'm  to  play  the  Village  Maid  I " 


THE   DEAR   DEPARTED         201 

And,  kissing  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  she  dabbed  them  on  the 
end  of  the  old  man's  nose. 

Taking  into  consideration  Eliphalet's  strong  distaste  for 
the  Cinema — a  distaste  rendered  more  poignant  by  his  own 
recent  unsuccessful  exploits  before  the  camera — it  is  sur- 
prising that  he  did  not  at  once  quash  the  whole  idea.  The 
fact  remains,  however,  that  he  did  not.  He  knew  in  hon- 
esty to  his  ideals  he  should  have  taken  up  a  very  severe 
standpoint,  but  instead  he  caressed  the  end  of  his  nose 
lovingly,  where  the  sense  of  the  kiss  she  had  dabbed  upon 
it  still  endured. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  he  said.  "There  is  no  better  way  of 
learning  a  mistake  than  by  experience — and  that  I  am  not 
justified  in  denying  you.  But  after  the  six  weeks,  Mornice, 
you  will  return  to  me." 

"Oh,  you  darling,  to  let  me!"  she  exclaimed,  delightedly. 
"And  of  course  I'll  do  whatever  you  say  I  must." 

He  seemed  to  ponder  for  a  while,  and  presently  said: 

"What  was  it  you  called  me  a  moment  ago?  Some  quite 
odd  name." 

"Daddy  fatherums?" 

"That  was  it— yes." 

"Do  you  like  being  called  that?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  confessed,  after  the  manner  of  an  expert 
tasting  a  rare  wine.  "I  do.  It  is  very  foolish  of  me,  no 
doubt — idiotic — but  I  like  it  notwithstanding." 

An  old  man  will  do  a  great  deal  for  a  girl — that  is 
sufficiently  obvious;  and  so,  for  that  matter,  will  a  young 
one. 

To  avoid  losing  any  of  her  society  Eliphalet  shifted  the 
scene  of  his  rehearsals  and  all  the  cast  to  Chester,  in  which 


202  THE    OLD    CARD 

town,  on  account  of  its  historic  surroundings,  the  film  was 
being  taken. 

His  theatrical  lodging-book  showed  no  addresses  of  the 
landladies  of  Chester,  but  Mornice  promised  to  drop  a  card 
to  Ronald  Knight  to  arrange  rooms  and  meet  them  at  the 
station. 

Ronald  Knight,  it  subsequently  appeared,  was  not  the 
manager  of  the  film  company,  but  the  manager's  son.  He 
was  a  young  man  of  dramatic  enthusiasm  and  ambition. 

In  Mornice's  conversations  he  recurred  with  great  fre- 
quency, under  such  titles  as  Ron,  Ronny,  Spud,  The  Boy — 
or  Pyjams.  (The  latter  being  arrived  at  by  a  kind  of 
inverted  reasoning,  sic.  Knight — Knightie — Nightie;  and 
since  the  masculine  of  nightie  equals  pyjamas,  hence 
Pyjams.) 

Eliphalet  was  somewhat  hard  put  to  it  to  recognise  a 
single  personality  under  so  many  alternative  names.  He 
gathered  that  Mr.  Knight  was  well  placed  in  the  esteem  of 
his  protegee,  and  on  that  account  suffered  mildly  jealous 
pangs.  These  he  was  not  too  subtle  to  betray — when 
Mornice  would  tactfully  remark: 

"The  boy  is  frightfully  anxious  to  meet  you.  He  just 
thrilled  when  I  told  him  I  was  your  sort-of-daughter." 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  very  likely,"  said  Eliphalet,  ironically; 
but  he  was  none  the  less  pleased  by  these  nosegays  of  speech. 

So  the  whole  cast  of  "The  Night  Cry"  were  entrained  for 
Chester,  where  in  due  course  they  arrived.  Mr.  Knight  was 
waiting  on  the  platform,  and  sprang  to  open  the  door  of 
Eliphalet's  compartment. 

"Here's  The  Boy,"  cried  Mornice.  "Now,  Spud,  be 
polite,  and  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Cardomay." 

Ronald  Knight  was  naturally  polite,  and  did  as  he  was 


THE    DEAR   DEPARTED          203 

bid,  with  "It's  a  very  great  pleasure  to  meet  you,  sir." 
While  Mornice,  in  the  background,  gratuitously  supplied, 
"I  call  him  Daddy  fatherums,  and  sometimes  Pummy." 

Eliphalet  frowned  a  little.  An  old  man  does  not  care 
to  have  his  pet  name  hung  on  the  line  for  all  to  behold. 

"Oh,  she's  boasting,"  said  Ronald,  with  some  neatness, 
who,  reversely,  as  a  young  man,  was  charmed  to  have  been 
called  "Spud"  in  public. 

"Mornice  tells  me  she  has  asked  you  to  find  us  some 
accommodations,"  said  Eliphalet. 

"Oh!  I  forgot  to,"  gasped  Mornice,  in  instant  contrition. 
Then:  "Hold  out  your  hand,  Moray!" 

Ronald  laughed  as  she  inflicted  punishment  upon  herself. 

"I  know  a  few  addresses,  Mr.  Cardomay.  Or  perhaps 
you  will  stay  at  the  hotel?" 

"I  prefer  rooms — they  are  more  homely." 

A  couple  of  addresses  were  written  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope  ("No,  not  that  one."  Eliphalet  recognised 
Mornice 's  writing,  and  smiled),  and  armed  with  these,  he 
and  she  and  their  more  portable  assets  climbed  into  a  cab. 

Ronald  was  a  shade  disappointed  at  being  left  behind, 
but  he  had  told  Mornice  they  would  want  to  see  her  at 
the  office  by  five  o'clock.  To  which  she  replied: 

"I'll  be  there  at  four,  then,  and  you  can  do  me  a  tea- 
beforehand.    By-oh,  Ron,"  as  they  rattled  over  the  cobbles 
of  the  station  yard. 

"Now,"  said  Eliphalet,  "we  have  a  choice  between  Mrs. 
Devon  and  Mrs.  Montmorency.  Which  shall  it  be?" 

Mornice  voted  in  favour  of  "The  West  Countrie"  as 
being  less  high-sounding  than  Montmorency.  Accordingly 
they  addressed  themselves  to  Mrs.  Devon's  knocker. 

Alas!  but  the  good  lady's  rooms  were  already  engaged. 


204  THE    OLD    CARD 

Yes,  she  had  heard  of  Mrs.  Montmorency,  but  could  claim 
no  actual  acquaintance. 

"I  think,"  she  hazarded,  "she's  been  abroad  a  good  deal. 
But  there!  it  doesn't  do  to  say  anything,  and  there  isn't 
any  reason  to  suppose  she  won't  make  you  comfortable — 
but  still!  That's  the  house  at  the  corner — Number  Six. 
The  one  with  the  funny  blinds." 

So  they  crossed  the  road  and  attacked  the  bell  of  Number 
Six,  and  after  a  decent  pause  the  door  was  opened  by  a 
middle-aged  woman  with  an  apron  but  no  cap. 

Eliphalet  addressed  her  as  "Madam"  and  enquired  if 
she  were  Mrs.  Montmorency. 

"No,"  came  the  reply,  with  a  touch  of  pride,  so  Mornice 
thought.  "No,  but  I  do  for  her.  I'm  Emma.  What  might 
you  want?" 

"We  are  requiring  two  bedrooms  and  a  sitting-room." 

"Y-es.  We  could  do  that.  Are  you  theatricals?  But 
there!  I  needn't  ask,  for  it's  stamped  on  your  faces  as 
plain  as  the  words  on  a  wall." 

Eliphalet  remarked  that  the  doorstep  was  inhospitable, 
and  suggested  they  might  be  invited  to  inspect  the  rooms. 

"You  shall  see  them,"  said  Emma,  adding,  "Such  as  they 
are."  She  led  them  within.  "There — this'd  be  the  sitting- 
room,  if  you  was  to  take  it." 

"But  it  is,  in  any  case,"  said  Mornice  with  a  twinkle. 

Emma  shook  her  head  discouragingly. 

"Well,  come!"  said  Eliphalet.  "This  is  quite  comfort- 
able." 

It  was  the  twin  of  every  other  theatrical  parlour,  with  its 
ponderous  wallpaper,  plush  upholsterings  and  curtains,  palm 
pedestal  in  the  window  and  draper's  paintings  on  the  walls. 

Emma  nodded  gloomily. 


THE    DEAR    DEPARTED          205 

"I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  she  allowed.  "If  you  want  to 
see  the  bedrooms,  you'll  'ave  to  climb  the  stairs,  for  there's 
no  other  way." 

She  led  the  procession  to  the  floor  above,  and  revealed 
two  reasonably  well-kept  bedrooms,  with  blue  linoleum  on 
the  floors  and  scarlet  Paisley  eiderdowns  on  the  beds. 

"I  think  this  should  suit  us  very  well.  Er — what  about 
terms,  now?" 

Emma  straightened  a  little  doormat  with  the  dilapidated 
toe  of  her  shoe. 

"  'Ardly  know  what  to  say  about  terms.  You  see,  she's 
funny  about  'em.  Tries  to  get  all  she  can — but  she  always 
takes  less." 

"Perhaps  I  could  speak  to  her?" 

"No,  no,  you  couldn't,  not  very  well.  Y'see,  she's  out — 
Saturday!  You  know  what  I  mean.  You  must  arrange 
with  me  or  not  at  all." 

"Certainly,  as  you  please." 

"What  about  twenty-five  shillings,  then?" 

Eliphalet  hesitated,  on  principle. 

"We  should  probably  be  here  for  three  weeks,"  he 
observed. 

"Then  you're  not  playing  in  the  town?" 

"No;  rehearsing." 

"That's  a  pity,  'cause  I'd  'ave  asked  for  a  seat  Friday. 
'Sides,  if  you're  r'hearsing,  it's  unlikely  you'd  be  able  to 
afford  twenty-five." 

"We  could  afford  a  great  deal  more,"  said  Eliphalet, 
with  a  touch  of  silly  pride.  "But  one  does  not  pay  more 
than  a  penny  for  a  penny  bun." 

"But  even  then  you  may  get  a  stale  one,"  replied  Emma 
philosophically.  "Well,  I  should  think  twenty-five  shillings 


206  THE   OLD    CARD 

'ud  be  enough,  then.  Tis  enough,  as  a  matter  of  fac' — 
plenty." 

"Very  well;  we  will  leave  it  at  that." 

"All  right.  I  'spec'  she'll  raise  a  rare  to-do  about  it,  but 
one  can't  help  that.  Pity  she  wasn't  'ome  'erself — but  there, 
it's  Saturday,  and  you  know  what  that  means!  'Ave  you 
'ad  your  dinners?" 

"No,"  said  Mornice;  "and  we're  dreadfully  hungry." 

"Well,  I  suppose  a  chop  each  'ud  do,  for  liver's  very  dear, 
and'  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  spend  much." 

"A  chop  will  be  excellent." 

"Then  I'll  leave  you  to  wash  your  'ands.  There  are  some 
bits  of  yellow  in  the  soap-dishes,  but  if  you've  brought  your 
own,  I'd  use  it." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  turned  and  addressed  Mornice. 

"You  may  as  well  be  warned.  The  'andle  of  the  water- 
jug  in  your  room  is  only  stuck  on  with  fish-glue,  so  you'd 
better  lift  by  the  sides  when  you're  pouring  out.  Three 
people  'ave  paid  for  that  'andle  already." 

"Thanks  awfully,"  said  Mornie,  trying  not  to  laugh. 

"Thought  I'd  tell  you.  Not  but  what  you're  sure  to 
forget;  then  you'll  make  the  fourth."  And  with  this  melan- 
choly foreboding  Emma  descended  toward  the  kitchen. 

Emma's  cooking  of  the  chops  was  of  more  attractive 
quality  than  her  conversational  manner  of  introducing  them. 
She  further  supplemented  the  meal  with  a  sweet  omelette, 
expressing  a  doubt,  while  serving  it,  that  the  price  of  the 
eggs  used  would  probably  "put  them  in  a  state"  when  they 
had  to  settle  the  bill. 

Mornice  was  enchanted  with  Emma,  and  gave  a  graphic 
performance  of  her  voice  and  manner  for  Eliphalet's  after- 
dinner  delectation. 


THE   DEAR    DEPARTED          207 

"She's  lovely,"  declared  Mornice;  "and  I  only  hope  Mrs. 
'Montblancmangy'  will  be  half  as  funny." 

The  lady  in  question  did  not  arrive  home  until  after 
Mornice  had  set  out  to  meet  Ronald  Knight.  It  was  about 
five-thirty  when  Eliphalet  heard  the  click  of  a  key  in  the 
front  door  and  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  passage.  Appar- 
ently, the  owner  of  the  house  was  a  clumsy  person,  for  a 
great  rattling  betokened  a  collision  with  the  umbrella-stand. 
There  followed  the  noise  of  objects  falling,  and  Eliphalet 
undertook  to  surmise  that  the  three  plush-backed  clothes- 
brushes  had  been  flung  from  their  brass  hooks  to  the  floor. 
A  certain  amount  of  scuffling  ensued,  and  then  a  female 
voice,  speaking  in  detached  tones,  said: 

"Dash  the  things!    Let  'em  lie!" 

Acting  on  this  resolution,  the  footsteps  continued  their 
way  down  the  passage,  and  a  door  at  the  far  end  banged. 

"H'm!"  said  Eliphalet  Cardomay. 

Emma  came  from  the  kitchen  and  entered  her  mistress's 
parlour. 

Mrs.  Montmorency  was  seated  in  a  wicker  chair,  and  her 
head  moved  from  side  to  side  in  a  rhythmic  measure.  On 
the  floor  beside  her  lay  various  belongings — a  bag,  an  um- 
brella and  a  pair  of  gloves.  Upon  her  lap  was  a  large 
brown-paper  parcel,  suggestive  of  the  wine  merchant,  and 
this  she  grasped  securely  by  a  small  leather  handle. 

She  was  a  largely-built  woman  on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty, 
and  the  clothes  she  wore  would  have  befitted  better  a  less 
advanced  age.  Large  plaques  of  jewellery  shone  from  her 
expansive  bosom  and  implicated  themselves  in  the  lace  and 
trimmings  of  her  blouse.  Across  her  shoulders  was  a  fur 
cape,  which,  in  conversational  periods,  she  styled  as  "My 
mink."  An  elaborate  hat,  at  the  moment  somewhat  awry, 


208  THE    OLD    CARD 

reposed  upon  her  butter-coloured  hair — hair  dressed  a  la 
pompadour.  Her  face  was  a  fine  shade  of  purple,  the  in- 
tensity of  which  had  been  somewhat  toned  down  by  a  liberal 
application  of  powder. 

"I've  let  the  rooms,"  remarked  Emma.  "Theatricals — an 
old  chap  and  'is  daughter." 

"Decidedly!"  replied  Mrs.  Montmorency,  her  head  still 
moving  and  increasing  the  raffish  angle  of  her  hat.  "De- 
cidedly! I  should  think  so,  indeed!  Why,  good  gracious 
me,  yes!" 

"If  you  know  all  about  it,  there's  no  call  for  me  to  tell 
you." 

"None  whatever — decidedly  not!     What  did  you  say?" 

"Oh,  you're — you're  Saturday!"  said  Emma. 

Mrs.  Montmorency  stiffened. 

"Any  sauciness,  and  out  you  go — bag  and  baggage,  lock, 
stock  and  barrel ! " 

"You  wouldn't  part  with  the  barrel — not  if  you  thought 
there  was  anything  in  it,"  returned  Emma,  with  asperity. 

"I  think,  Emma,  you  forget  who  you're  speaking  to.  Now, 
what  did  you  say  about  the  rooms?" 

"Let  'em,  that's  all.  Twenty-one  shillings  a  week  for  the 
two  upstair  fronts  and  the  sitting,  and  they'll  stay  three 
weeks  like  as  not." 

"This  comes  of  my  going  out!"  declared  Mrs.  Mont- 
morency. "It  means  that  I  can't  go  out,  and  that's  what 
it  does  mean!  Who,  may  I  ask,  please,  have  you  let  my 
rooms  to  at  such  a  price?" 

"Old  fellow  and  his  daughter." 

"Daughter,  indeed!  Decidedly,  I  should  say  so.  A  nice 
thing  altogether.  Well!  it's  what  I  expected — no  more,  no 
less." 


THE   DEAR   DEPARTED         209 

"You  can  tell  'em  to  go  if  you're  not  satisfied — I  'aven't 
sheeted  the  beds  yet." 

"That's  at  my  pleasure,  and  one  more  piece  of  sauciness 
and  you'll  be  the  one  to  go.  But  I'll  charge  them  for  the 
cruet — ninepence  a  week,  and  any  breakages  will  be  double 
— double.  And  now,  please,  what  are  the  names  of  the 
precious  pair?" 

"Didn't  ask." 

"No,  you  wouldn't — decidedly  not.  You'd  turn  my  house 
into  a  warren  for  all  the  rag-bag  and  nameless  vagabonds 
in  the  town.  I'll  see  them  myself,  and  you  can  be  sure  I'll 
have  my  say,  too." 

"Then  I  should  take  off  my  'at  and  straighten  up  a  bit 
first — for  you  look  for  all  the  world  like  a  needle  in  a 
hay-stack." 

Emma  walked  from  the  room  and  slammed  the  door. 

Mrs.  Montmorency  rose  from  her  chair  and,  approaching 
the  mirror  on  the  mantelshelf,  Narcissus-fashion  surveyed 
her  own  loveliness  therein.  Seemingly  she  found  Emma's 
counsel  good,  for  she  removed  her  hat  and  cast  it  upon  a 
chair,  where  it  was  crushed  in  the  emotional  crisis  that 
followed.  Her  hair  she  pawed  and  patted  into  some  pre- 
tensions to  order — her  face  she  enriched  with  a  fresh  crust 
of  powder.  From  a  scent-spray,  convenient  to  hand,  she 
directed  a  jet  of  some  heliotrope-coloured  fluid  upon  her 
bosom.  This  done,  she  straightened  her  figure  and  passed 
out  into  the  passage,  with  primmed  lips. 

To  avoid  the  impression  that  by  letting  a  room  she  sacri- 
ficed the  privilege  of  entering  it  at  will,  she  turned  the 
handle  of  Eliphalet's  door,  without  knocking,  and  walked 
inside. 

It  happened  that  the  old  actor  had  closed  his  eyes  for  a 


210  THE    OLD    CARD 

few  moments  and  was  sleeping — his  back  toward  her.  Mrs. 
Montmorency  sniffed,  but,  failing  to  awaken  him,  circum- 
navigated the  table  until  his  features,  lit  up  by  the  cast- 
down  glare  of  the  incandescent  gas,  confronted  her  own. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  and  then,  with  a  curious 
throttled  cry,  turned  about  and  fled. 

Eliphalet  sprang  to  his  feet  and  arrived  in  the  passage 
in  time  to  see  the  door  at  the  far  end  swing  to  with  a  bang 
that  shook  the  house. 

"How  very  curious!"  he  said,  and  returned  to  his  chair. 

"God!  It's  Cardy,"  gasped  Mrs.  Montmorency,  panting 
breathlessly  against  the  mantelpiece. 

She  rang  the  bell  furiously,  but  when  Emma  arrived 
waved  her  away  with,  "No — no — I  want  nothing.  I've 
had  a  shock,  that's  all;  but  I  can  manage." 

She  managed  uncommonly  well,  and  it  must  be  considered 
as  providential  that  her  purchases  that  afternoon  had  in- 
cluded two  bottles  of  brandy  whereby  the  ill  effects  of  the 
shock  were  capable  of  being  warded  off.  By  the  time  the 
first  bottle  was  at  half-tide,  she  was  able  to  review  the 
situation  less  fearfully. 

Here  was  her  first  husband — the  man  who  divorced  her — 
living  under  the  same  roof  as  a  guest,  and  with  him  was  a 
grown-up  daughter. 

What  would  be  the  result  of  this  intolerable  coincidence? 
As  a  late  member  of  the  Boards  herself,  her  imagination 
supplied  many  startling  solutions.  The  conventional  idea 
was  that  Eliphalet,  realising  what  he  had  thrown  away, 
would  implore  her  to  take  pity  and  return  to  the  shelter 
of  his  arms;  the  dramatic,  that  after  years  of  anger  and 
dull  hatred,  the  sight  of  her  would  cast  him  into  such  a 
frenzy  that  murder  would  be  done.  In  support  of  this 


THE   DEAR   DEPARTED         211 

theory  came  the  memory  of  how  once  he  had  called  out  his 
man  to  fight  with  pistols  for  the  sake  of  her  honour.  It 
was  all  very  irritating  and  tiresome,  coming  as  it  did  at  the 
time  when  she  had  settled  down  to  peaceable  ways  of  living. 
As  fruits  of  many  affectionate  years,  she  was  left  with  money 
enough  to  buy  the  small  lodging-house,  and  a  matter  of 
fifty  pounds  per  annum  over  and  above  to  guarantee  a  con- 
vivial Saturday  at  the  end  of  each  week.  This  was  not 
affluence  by  any  means,  but  it  sufficed  to  make  life  endur- 
able. It  was  impossible  that  Eliphalet  would  be  in  so  good 
a  position,  and  was  it  not  more  than  likely  that  if  he  discov- 
ered her,  his  first  thoughts  would  be  to  negotiate  a  loan? 

This  latter  theory  caused  Mrs.  Montmorency  more  un- 
easiness than  any  other.  Generosity  was  not  a  strong  point, 
beyond  the  latitude  she  allowed  herself  for  personal  indul- 
gences. Clearly,  then,  Eliphalet  Cardomay's  propinquity 
was  not  to  be  encouraged. 

Once  more  she  rang  the  bell  for  Emma. 

"What  terms  did  you  ask  these  people  for  my  rooms?" 
she  demanded. 

"I  asked  'em  twenty-five." 

"And  they  beat  you  down?" 

aOh,  yes,"  said  Emma,  who  was  sick  of  the  whole  affair. 

"I  thought  as  much.    And  where  are  they  playing?" 

"Nowhere.    They're  r'hearsing." 

"Indeed!  And  who  ever  heard  of  letting  rooms  to  an 
actor  who  was  rehearsing?" 

"They've  got  to  sleep  somewhere  while  they're  doing  it — 
haven't  they?" 

"They  are  not  going  to  sleep  here — not  after  to-night, 
or  to-morrow  at  the  latest.  That  I  have  made  up  my  mind 


212  THE    OLD    CARD 

to.  This  house  is  not  a  charitable  institution;  whatever  else 
it  may  be,  it  isn't  that." 

"A  truer  word  never  passed  your  lips,"  said  Emma,  and 
escaped  before  the  inevitable  warning  about  sauciness  found 
expression. 

Mrs.  Montmorency  drank  soberly  for  an  hour  to  lubricate 
her  reflections.  She  heard  Mornice  come  in  about  eight 
o'clock,  and  was  fired  with  a  desire  to  go  into  the  passage 
and  denounce  her.  This  project,  however,  she  abandoned 
for  want  of  material  for  the  accusation.  She  decided  that 
a  dignified  letter  would  be  the  best  means  of  being  rid  of 
the  pair  of  them,  and  this  she  set  about  to  write.  But, 
chiefly  due  to  the  error  of  dipping  the  wrong  end  of  the 
pen  into  the  ink,  the  dignity  failed  to  appear  on  the  page. 
Even  in  her  semi-bemused  condition  she  realised  that  Eli- 
phalet  could  hardly  be  expected  to  fathom  the  meaning  of 
her  shadow-graphs,  and  so  decided  to  leave  the  matter 
unsettled  until  the  morning.  That  being  so,  it  was  obviously 
a  slight  on  her  maker  of  cognac  to  leave  the  bottle  unemptied 
— and,  after  all,  it  was  Saturday. 

She  was  singing  some  little  trifle  of  song  when,  about  ten 
o'clock,  she  perilously  mounted  the  stairs  toward  the  ob- 
livion of  her  bed-chamber. 

With  the  arrival  of  the  day  Mrs.  Montmorency  was  able 
to  approach  the  problem  with  a  clearer  headache.  She 
recollected,  with  a  start,  that  only  a  few  inches  of  brick  and 
plaster  separated  her  from  her  one-time  husband. 

Emma  did  not  offer  her  breakfast  on  Sunday  mornings, 
for  to  do  so  was  to  incur  a  rebuke  for  sauciness — and  so, 
when  dressed,  nothing  prevented  Mrs.  Montmorency  from 
getting  to  work  at  once  upon  the  eviction  of  her  tenants. 

For  a  long  while  she  sat  with  the  pen  in  her  mouth  and 


THE   DEAR   DEPARTED         213 

her  brows  contracted  in  thought.  To  tell  the  truth,  she 
was  not  gifted  with  a  high  standard  of  literary  attainment. 
As  a  girl,  she  could  dash  off  as  many  as  you  please  of  the 
"My  own  darling  boy"  sort  of  letters  which  ended  with  "tons 
of  love  and  kisses,"  but  this  severer  kind  of  exchange  pre- 
sented abundant  difficulties.  With  the  exception  of  Eliphalet, 
none  of  her  husbands,  or  those  who  had  passed  as  such,  was 
of  a  scholarly  turn.  Harrington  May,  Mornice's  father,  on 
whose  account  Eliphalet  had  divorced  her,  though  by  no 
means  a  fool,  had  not  troubled  to  obtrude  his  erudition  upon 
her.  Similarly,  none  of  the  other  hands  through  which  she 
had  passed  had  used  their  skill  to  mould  her  intellect. 

At  last,  however,  she  contrived  a  letter  which  gave  her 
every  sort  of  satisfaction.  It  ran: 

SIR, — My  Emma  in  my  absence  let  you  rooms  at  terms 
unsatisfactory  to  myself.  Mrs.  Montmorency  is  a  lady  who 
does  not  take  in  lodgers  without  good  credenshalls.  This  is 
not  to  in  any  way  say  that  your  credenshalls  may  not  be  all 
right,  but  as  I  have  no  knowledge  of  you  she  feels  the  let 
is  not  satisfactorily.  It  would  be  necessary  under  such  a 
state  as  yours  for  payment  to  be  made  for  the  whole  time  of 
three  weeks  in  advance.  As  it  is  not  likely  under  your 
present  state  you  could  do  this  or  be  able  she  feels  obliged 
to  ask  you  to  go  elsewhere  without  trying  to  be  impolite. 
I  beg  to  remain, 

Yours  faithfully, 

MRS.  B.  MONTMORENCY. 

Mornice  had  brought  Ronald  in  to  lunch,  and  this  letter 
was  handed  to  Eliphalet  simultaneously  with  the  apple-tart. 
He  frowned  a  little  as  he  read  it,  and  remarking  "Extraor- 
dinary woman!"  handed  it  to  Mornice. 


214  THE    OLD    CARD 

"Oh,  it's  sweet!"  cried  Mornice.  "Read  it,  Pyjams." 
Then  to  Emma,  "Do  ask  her  to  come  in." 

Emma  had  been  schooled  in  what  to  say  should  this 
request  be  made.  Her  manner  of  putting  it  was: 

"She's  in  bed.  Bit  funny  to-day!  You  know  what  I 
mean." 

"I  will  reply  later,"  said  Eliphalet.  When  Emma  had 
left  the  room,  he  picked  up  the  thread  of  the  former 
conversation — his  familiar  views  upon  the  degradation  of 
acting  for  the  Cinema. 

"Yet,  sir,"  said  Ronald,  who  had  listened  very  politely, 
"I  am  sure  Miss  Mornice  June  would  have  a  great  future 
in  the  film.  My  father  agrees  with  me." 

"There  is  no  future  for  the  film,  my  boy,"  corrected 
Eliphalet.  "Now,  for  the  stage " 

Ronald  Knight  agreed  heartily  that  the  art  of  the  stage 
ranked  on  a  far  higher  plane,  and  expressed  his  own  very 
proper  ambitions  in  this  direction. 

On  the  whole,  Eliphalet  was  pleased  with  the  young  man, 
and  lost  his  sense  of  jealousy  when  Mornice  "Ronnied" 
and  "Spuddied"  him. 

After  he  had  gone  and  Eliphalet  had  replied  for  about 
the  nineteenth  time,  "Certainly  he  is  a  very  agreeable  young 
fellow,"  he  turned  to  the  matter  of  the  letter  again. 

"It  is  very  curious,"  he  said,  after  reading  it  a  second 
time,  "but  there  is  something  familiar  about  the  composition 
and  handwriting  of  this  note." 

"Now  you  say  so,  it  strikes  me  too,"  said  Mornice. 

He  laughed.  "Then  I  am  sure  it  is  merely  imagination 
on  my  part.  But  that  is  unimportant.  This  is  very  offen- 
sive, and  I  am  seriously  disposed  to  ask  for  the  bill  and  go." 

Mornice  dissuaded  him.     Emma  made  her  laugh,  she 


THE    DEAR   DEPARTED          215 

said,  and  her  bed  was  a  dream  without  lumps.  Probably 
the  poor  thing  was  hard  up,  and  it  was  just  a  try  on  to  get 
money  in  advance. 

"Well,  if  that  is  so,  and  you  are  satisfied,  there  is  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  have  it." 

Accordingly  he  sat  down  and  wrote: 

MADAME, — /  am  in  receipt  of  your  letter  and  hasten  to 
applaud  the  spirit  of  caution  that  inspired  it. 

It  has  not  been  my  habit  to  give  credentials  when  taking 
rooms,  since  I  believed  my  name  to  be  a  sufficient  guarantee 
of  probity.    However,  since  this  appears  to  be  a  condition 
you  require,  I  enclose  five  pounds,  three  guineas  being  for 
rent  and  the  remainder  towards  current  expenses. 
Awaiting  your  acknowledgment  and  receipt, 
Yours  faithfully, 

ELIPHALET  CARDOMAY 
(with  a  flourish  beneath) . 

"Well,  is  he  going?  Was  he  wild?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Montmorency  when  Emma  brought  the  note. 

"Neither,  by  the  looks  of  it." 

"Oh,  dear!  Give  me  the  letter,  then,  and  don't  stand 

there  looking  as  if — if "  She  could  think  of  nothing, 

so  opened  the  envelope  instead. 

The  sight  of  the  five-pound  note  gave  her  astonishment 
and  perplexity. 

"Isn't  it  like  him!"  she  exclaimed,  when  she  had  read 
what  he  had  to  say.  "Prosy  old  fool!" 

"Eh?"  inquired  Emma. 

"I  was  not  addressing  you." 

She  bit  one  of  her  short,  podgy  fingers,  and  thought  hard. 
"Wish  I  could  see  him  for  a  moment." 


216  THE   OLD   CARD 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"Because  you've  let  all  the  front  room  windows,  like  the 
fool  you  are.  That's  the  worst  of  a  house  without  a 
basement." 

"Go  and  see  'im  in  his  room — 'e's  there." 

"I  won't,  and  I  don't  want  any  saucy  suggestions  from 
you,  either."  She  tapped  her  foot  and  fingered  the  five- 
pound  note  indecisively.  "You've  been  in  the  provinces  all 
the  while  I've  been  abroad.  Have  you  ever  heard  of 
Eliphalet  Cardomay?" 

"  'Course.  Who  'asn't?  Runs  his  own  companies, 
doesn't  'e?  I  suppose  anyone  who's  heard  of  Queen  Anne 
'as  'card  of  'im." 

"His  own  companies?    What  sort  of  theatres?" 

"Big  drama  houses." 

"Oh!  Oh!  That's  the  worst  of  being  out  of  the  swim 

so  long.  H'm!  Wonder  if  it  'ud  be  a  mistake "  She 

took  a  pen  and  wrote  a  receipt  for  five  pounds.  "With 
Mrs.  Montmorency's  compliments,  please,  and  tell  him  she 
is  satisfied." 

,Emma  placed  it  on  the  arm  of  Eliphalet's  chair,  saying: 

"All  right!    You  don't  'ave  to  go,  after  all." 

Eliphalet  Cardomay's  five-pound  note  had  created  a  pro- 
found impression  on  Mrs.  Montmorency.  That  he,  at  his 
age,  could  produce  so  large  a  sum  without  protest  or  diffi- 
culty argued  that  he  must  be  in  a  singularly  sound  financial 
position.  A  man  who  could  do  so  much  could  probably  do 
more — and  if  that  were  the  case 

She  had  worked  out  her  life  on  strictly  practical  lines — 
the  margin  for  enjoyment  being  limited  by  her  tangible 
assets.  It  was  purely  motives  of  economy  that  only  allowed 
the  indulgence  of  a  single  "Saturday"  in  the  week.  With 


THE    DEAR    DEPARTED          217 

a  little  more  capital  a  "Saturday"  might  also  occur  on 
Tuesday.  Her  "mink"  might  cease  to  be  a  substitute  and 
become  mink.  Scented  soaps,  patchouli,  and  many  other 
nose-offending  delicacies  might  spring  into  being  about  her. 
A  cellar,  even,  might  be  started,  and  a  silver  mirror  added 
to  her  gradually-dwindling  toilet  appointments.  Clearly,  it 
was  not  advisable  to  cast  Eliphalet  forth  without  first 
plumbing  his  resources.  That  grown-up  daughter  was  rather 
a  stumbling-block.  Daughters  are  unsympathetic  creatures, 
and  it  might  very  well  be  that  she  would  stand  in  the  way 
of  her  father's  generous  impulses.  The  main  thing  to  do 
was  to  find  out  exactly  what  their  position  was,  and  mean- 
while to  lie  low. 

For  three  days  Mrs.  Montmorency  digested  her  plans  and 
took  great  pains  to  avoid  meeting  her  guests.  This  neces- 
sity resulted  in  some  very  near  shaves;  in  one  case  driving 
her  to  take  refuge  in  the  cistern-cupboard. 

Emma  was  valueless,  since  she  declined  to  interrogate 
either  Eliphalet  or  Mornice  on  the  matter  of  their  private 
affairs,  and  it  was  only  by  accident  that  Mrs.  Montmo- 
rency learnt  that  Mr.  Ronald  Knight,  who  visited  the  house 
nearly  every  day,  was  the  gentleman  who  had  recommended 
them  to  her  tender  graces. 

This  was  a  happy  windfall,  for  it  provided  an  excuse  for 
offering  him  her  thanks  and  at  the  same  time  drawing  from 
him  a  little  private  conversation. 

The  following  afternoon,  which  was  too  wet  and  dark  to 
be  of  use  to  the  film  folk,  Mr.  Knight  returned  with  Morn- 
ice  and  entered  the  house. 

No  sooner  did  Mrs.  Montmorency  hear  his  voice  in  the 
sitting-room  than  she  opened  the  front  door  and  passed 
out. 


218  THE    OLD    CARD 

There  was  a  broad-minded  pastry-cook's  at  the  corner  of 
the  street,  where  cherry-brandy  and  sweet  wines  were  dis- 
pensed to  nervous  ladies,  and,  using  this  as  an  observation- 
post,  Mrs.  Montmorency  sat  down  to  a  pleasant  hour  of 
waiting. 

"Mr.  Cardomay  out?"  said  Ronald,  warming  his  hands 
before  the  fire. 

"Yup.  They're  doing  the  second  act — he  won't  be  in  till 
five." 

Ronald  bore  the  tidings  with  fortitude. 

"You're  going  to  be  awfully  good  in  that  film,  Moray," 
he  said. 

"Think  so?" 

"Sure  so!  If  it  gets  released  and  well  booked  they'll  be 
after  you  like  flies — all  the  big  firms." 

"Bon!"  said  Mornice,  who  could  throw  a  spice  of  French 
into  her  conversation. 

"Moray!" 

"That's  me!" 

"I  suppose  dozens  of  men  have  adored  you?" 

"Oh,  yes.  We'll  take  a  tram  to-morrow,  if  you  please, 
and  look  at  their  little  graves." 

"Have  you  ever  loved  any  of  them?" 

"All  of  them." 

"Any  one  more  than  the  rest?" 

"Yes;  but  not  so's  you'd  notice." 

"It  wouldn't  be  very  original  of  me,  then,  to  say  I  loved 
you?" 

"It  would  be  if  you  didn't." 

He  scarcely  knew  how  to  take  that,  but  he  tried: 

"D'you  want  me  to  be  original?" 

"If  you  can't  be  natural,"  she  said. 


THE    DEAR   DEPARTED          219 

"If  I  were  natural,"  said  Ronald,  with  a  deep  breath,  "I 
should  ask  you  to  marry  me — when  I've  got  on  and  have  a 
good  position.  Will  you?" 

"Well,  come,  Ronnie,"  said  Mornice,  who  was  used  to 
protestations  of  love  but  a  stranger  to  proposals  of  mar- 
riage; "it's  a  sporting  offer,  isn't  it?" 

"Do  you  take  it,  then?" 

She  bit  her  pretty  little  mouth  into  all  manner  of  tanta- 
lising and  absurd  shapes. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  have  it  by  me  to  think  about  and  enjoy 
all  by  my  lonesome." 

"You  want  me  to  go  away?  I  will!" 

"Norrabit!  You  stop.  I'll  let  you  know  some  day.  The 
matter  shall  have  our  serious  consideration,"  she  added,  and 
laughed  provokingly. 

He  got  up  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Moray,  it's  awfully  difficult  to  stop  without  wanting 
to— to " 

"Yes?" 

"To  kiss  you." 

"Well,"  said  Mornice,  "and  what's  to  prevent  you, 
please?" 

"You  might  not  like  it." 

"But  I'm  certain  I  should." 

She  pouted  up  into  his  face,  and  he  kissed  her,  and  she 
kissed  him — and  very  proper,  too. 

There  is  a  deal  too  much  nonsense  talked  about  kissing; 
it  should  be  encouraged,  for  all  that  bacteriologists  say  to 
the  contrary.  Reliable  young  people,  with  properly  ordered 
minds,  ought  to  kiss  each  other  far  more  frequently  than 
they  do.  It  is  a  delightful,  frank  and  wholesome  pastime — 
and  does  any  amount  of  good  all  round.  Of  course,  if  you 


220  THE   OLD    CARD 

are  a  prude  and  attach  an  absurd  significance  to  a  kiss, 
there  is  no  more  to  be  said,  and  it  is  your  own  look-out  and 
your  own  loss.  But  if  you  take  it  as  a  seal  of  good  fellow- 
ship, and  expression  of  the  youthfulness  that  sings  in  every 
decent  heart,  however  old,  it  is  right  and  good  and  proper. 
Besides,  no  one  will  mind,  that  way.  They  will  slap  you 
on  the  back  and  say  you  are  a  jolly  good  fellow,  and  she's 
a  dear,  sweet,  natural  girl,  and  your  wife  will  kiss  your  own 
particular  pal's  husband,  and  she  will  snuggle  none  the  less 
close  to  you  on  that  account,  nor  will  you  press  his  hand 
with  any  the  less  warmth.  If  we  abandoned  kissing  the 
people  we  don't  want  to  kiss,  and  only  gave  our  caresses  to 
the  ones  we  do,  the  world  would  be  an  ever  so  much  jollier 
little  globe  to  live  upon. 

Ronald  was  in  a  very  glorified  frame  of  mind  when  he 
came  down  the  road,  and,  seeing  him,  Mrs.  Montmorency 
rose  from  her  fourth  cherry-brandy  and  debouched  from 
the  confectioner's. 

"I  believe  I  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  Mr 
Knight,"  she  said. 

He  raised  his  hat. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "but  forgive  me  if  I " 

"I  am  Mrs.  Montmorency.  You  were  kind  enough  to 
recommend  me  to  my  present  guests." 

"Ah,  yes!     So  I  did." 

"It  was  so  kind  of  you,  and  I  wish  to  say  how  grateful 
lam." 

"Oh,  not  at  all— delighted!  Good  afternoon! "  For  Ron- 
ald was  very  happy  with  his  thoughts. 

"I  am  stepping  your  way,  Mr.  Knight,  and  if  you  don't 
mind,  we'll  walk  together." 

What  could  he  do  but  acquiesce? 


THE   DEAR   DEPARTED         221 

"It  is  rather  a  delicate  thing  to  say,"  she  went  on,  "but 
— well,  I'm  rather  particular,  and  I've  been  abroad  for  a 
good  many  years."  (She  branched  aside  to  give  a  few  im- 
pressions of  the  Antipodes.)  "So,  you  see,  I've  rather  lost 
touch.  What  I  do  want  to  know  is,  are  the  Cardomays 
quite  nice  people?" 

Ronald  supported  them  hotly  and  enthusiastically.  He 
represented  Eliphalet  as  a  delightful  personality  who,  pro- 
fessionally, was  second  only  to  Sir  Henry  Irving  in  the 
hearts  of  the  public. 

This  was  encouraging,  but  Mrs.  Montmorency  had  not 
gained  all  the  information  she  required. 

"And  the  dear  young  lady — such  a  sweet  girl,  I  think — 
she's  entirely  dependent  on  the  old  gentleman,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  indeed,"  returned  Ronald.  "She's  playing  lead  in 
an  important  film  production  at  a  very  substantial  salary." 

"How  nice!  Nothing  I  like  better  than  to  hear  of  young 
people  getting  on.  I'm  an  old  pro.  myself,  Mr.  Knight; 
used  to  be  quite  a  star  in  my  day.  But,  dear  me!  I've 
passed  my  turning.  Thank  you  so  much,  and  good  after- 
noon." 

"Good  afternoon,"  repeated  Ronald,  delighted  to  be  rid 
of  the  lady  of  haunting  odours. 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Mrs.  Montmorency  to  herself. 
"It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  me  if  I  didn't  take  the  chance." 

At  breakfast  next  day  Eliphalet  found  a  note  on  his 
plate  stating  that  Mrs.  Montmorency  would  be  highly  hon- 
oured if  he  would  favour  her  with  a  call  in  her  private 
boudoir  at  six  that  evening.  He  sent  a  reply  to  the  effect 
that  he  would  be  pleased  to  come  at  the  time  stated. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Montmorency  was  rehearsing  the  recon- 
ciliation scene  from  every  possible  mental  angle.  She  de- 


222  THE   OLD    CARD 

cided  to  adopt  the  attitude  of  a  tired  woman,  sick  of  the 
world  and  its  frivolities — a  woman  who  yearned  for  ten- 
derness and  the  warmth  of  a  home  fire.  Contrition  there 
should  be  in  plenty — a  hint  of  many  privations,  bravely 
borne,  and  a  show  of  still  amply-filled  wells  of  affection 
wherefrom  a  man  might  fill  his  bucket  with  joy. 

She  ransacked  her  wardrobe  and  produced  a  peignoir  con- 
stituting a  cross  between  a  kimono  and  a  Nottingham  lace 
curtain.  This  garment,  she  felt  sure,  would  lay  siege  to 
any  heart.  With  her  own  hands  she  ironed  and  prepared  it, 
then  laid  it  aside  upon  the  bed  until  the  hour  for  dressing 
should  arrive.  Naturally,  these  exertions  called  for  stim- 
ulant, and  a  bottle  of  brandy  was  broached  with  beneficial 
results.  From  a  hidden  recess  she  unearthed  an  early  por- 
trait of  Eliphalet,  and  this  she  placed  in  a  frame,  occupied 
by  some  more  recent  tenant  of  her  affections,  and  hung  it 
on  the  wall  in  her  boudoir.  Emma  was  despatched,  not 
without  protest,  to  procure  half-a-dozen  arum  lilies  and  half 
an  ounce  of  cachous.  The  lilies  were  bestowed  in  vases  on 
the  mantelshelf,  and  the  cachous  fought  a  losing  fight  with 
the  brandy-fumes. 

All  being  in  readiness,  she  mounted  the  stairs,  abandoned 
her  corsets,  donned  the  peignoir,  and  made  what  little  im- 
provements to  her  face  were  expedient  with  creams  and 
powder. 

"I  can't  imagine  what  she  wants  with  me,"  said  Eliphalet, 
"but"  he  glanced  at  his  watch — "I  soon  shall." 

Throwing  Moraice  a  smile,  he  went  down  the  passage  to- 
ward the  private  boudoir.  There  was  no  answer  to  his 
knock,  so  he  turned  the  handle  and  walked  inside.  Mrs. 
Montmorency  hung  over  the  bannisters  above,  and  watched 
him  enter. 


THE    DEAR   DEPARTED          223 

Finding  himself  alone,  his  first  thought  was  to  retire,  but 
an  innate  curiosity  caused  him  to  look  about  him  first.  The 
lilies  attracted  his  attention,  or  rather  diverted  it  from 
the  garish  vulgarity  of  the  other  decorations.  His  eye 
was  caught  by  the  photographs  on  the  walls,  for  he  recog- 
nised several  old  faces  among  them.  All  theatrical  lodg- 
ings are  plastered  with  portraits  of  the  various  actors  who 
have  distinguished  them  with  their  presence,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  sequence  of  the  portraits  that  seemed  oddly 
familiar.  Somewhere,  on  some  past  wall,  he  had  seen  the 
same  picture  gallery  assembled.  Where?  He  turned  and 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  his  own  portrait — his  por- 
trait as  a  very  young  man;  written  across  it  in  ink,  autum- 
nal-brown with  time,  were  the  words: 

"To   my   dear   Blanche— Eliphalet." 

"Good  God!"  he  whispered. 

Then  said  a  voice  behind  him,  speaking  in  trembling 
accents: 

"I've  been  so  miserable,  Cardy.  All  these  years  I  have 
never  known  a  moment's  peace  and  quietude." 

He  revolved  slowly  and  confronted  the  woman  who  had 
been  his  wife.  Her  hands  outstretched  toward  him.  He 
did  not  move,  but  looked  her  over  gravely.  Dolled  up, 
painted,  and  smelling  of  half-a-dozen  cheap  perfumes  that 
strove  in  vain  to  subordinate  the  reek  of  still  stronger  waters 
— she  was  all  that  his  fancy  pictured  she  would  be. 

"So  it's  you,  Blanche,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  me— what's  left."  (He  nodded  at  that.)  "If  you 
knew,  Cardy,  what  I  have  gone  through— what  my  con- 
science has  suffered  for  the  way  I  served  you,  you  would 

take  pity.  That's  why "  She  made  a  gesture  as  though 

to  say,  "Behold  the  wreckage"— "And  you— you  so  young- 


224  THE   OLD    CARD 

looking,  so  handsome,  and  with  a  beautiful  grown-up  daugh- 
ter I  Oh,  Cardy,  it's  too  much  to  bear.  You  must  forgive 
me  and  take  me  back." 

Sobbing  piteously,  she  fell  into  his  arms. 

Eliphalet  let  her  sob  for  as  long  as  he  could  hold  his 
breath;  then  he  placed  her  in  a  chair  and  seated  himself 
as  far  away  as  possible. 

"Need  you  envy  me  so  acutely?"  he  said.  "You  married 
again,  and  bore  a  daughter  after  you  ceased  to  be  my  wife." 

"That's  true,"  she  nodded,  dabbing  her  nose,  which  sprang 
to  a  bright  purple  at  the  touch;  "but  it's  cruel  to  remind 
me." 

"Why?"     His  voice  was  courteous,  but  unsympathetic. 

"She — Oh,  and  she  was  such  a  pretty,  dainty  little  thing. 
I  can't  speak  of  her,  Cardy.  I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

With  a  choking  voice  she  replied: 

"She  was  taken — taken " 

"You  mean  she  died?" 

"Died;  yes.  Only  fourteen — getting  on  so  nicely,  too; 
beginning  to  earn  her  own  keep,  like  the  one  you've  got. 
But  there,  you've  always  been  the  lucky  one." 

"By  God,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  have." 

It  was  an  awkward  remark  to  counter,  so  Blanche  kept 
up  her  pathetic  wail. 

"It  would  be  like  the  touch  of  my  own  child,  just  to  see 
your  daughter." 

"You  shall,"  said  he,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

This  movement  was  ahead  of  its  cue,  so  she  hastened  to 
exclaim: 

"Yes,  but  not  now — wait  till  I'm  myself  again.  Cardy, 
can  you — will  you  let  me  come  into  your  life  again?" 


THE   DEAR   DEPARTED         225 

"We  can  discuss  that  later,  I  wish  to  show  you  my  daugh- 
ter first." 

He  went  straight  to  his  sitting-room. 

"Morr;ce,"  he  said.  "Our  landlady — she — she's  your 
mother.  I  want  you  to  come  with  me." 

Mornice  gasped,  but  made  no  articulate  reply.  Hand  in 
hand,  they  entered  Mrs.  Montmorency's  boudoir. 

It  occupied  a  full  five  seconds  before  Mrs.  Montmorency 
grasped  the  situation;  when  she  did,  she  sat  bolt  upright 
and  exclaimed,  "O  God!"  in  the  most  colloquial  way  imag- 
inable. 

Mornice  said  nothing,  which  in  the  circumstances  was  the 
best  thing  to  do. 

"Well,"  said  Eliphalet,  "is  there  anything  to  be  gained  by 
continuing  the  scene?" 

Mrs.  Montmorency  rose  and  gave  herself  away. 

"Well,  you  were  earning  a  good  living,  weren't  you?"  she 
demanded  of  Mornice.  "My — er — friend  didn't  like  chil- 
dren, and  I  had  my  own  way  to  make.  Then  when  I  met 
Mr.  Montmorency  abroad,  and  told  him  about  you,  he 
couldn't  be  bothered." 

"Yes,  I  quite  understand,"  said  Mornice. 

"Girls  should  be  made  to  look  after  themselves." 

Eliphalet  cut  in  with  "I  think  all  that  is  necessary  has 
been  said." 

Blanche  breathed  desperately  through  her  nose.  She  had 
lost  ground,  and  saw  no  hope  of  regaining  it.  As  a  last 
cast — a  final  appeal  to  the  emotions,  she  volunteered  to 
faint. 

"I'm  going  off!"  she  cried.  "Quick— brandy!"  Her  fal- 
tering gestures  indicated  the  cellarette  very  concisely. 


226  THE    OLD    CARD 

Eliphalet  poured  a  measure  into  a  convenient  glass,  and 
she  gulped  at  it  greedily. 

Then  the  faint — an  unconvincing  affair  of  eyelid  work 
and  hand-twitching — took  place.  From  a  kind  of  innate 
chivalry  they  waited  until  such  a  time  as  she  thought  fit 
to  recover. 

"We  will  say  good-bye,  Blanche,"  said  Eliphalet.  "Your 
daughter  and  I  have  our  packing  to  do.  Is  there  anything 
else  you  wish  to  say  to  her?" 

"No,  there  isn't,"  came  the  uncompromising  reply. 

"Good-bye,  then." 

"But  I'll  say  this  to  you,  though,"  said  Blanche.  "You 
are  a  pig — that's  what  you  are — an  old  pig!" 

They  went  out,  closing  the  door  as  her  similes  climbed 
the  ladder  of  abuse  in  a  ringing  crescendo. 

Later,  as  they  drove  through  the  cool  night  air,  toward 
the  hotel,  Eliphalet  thoughtfully  said: 

"You  were  right,  my  dear;  it  wouldn't  have  been  any 
good.  But  it's  a  pity  for  you." 

"Why?"  she  answered,  laying  her  warm  little  hand  in  his. 
"I've  got  a  Daddy  fatherums,  haven't  I?" 


CHAPTER  XI 

CLOUDS 

f 

'"pHE  NIGHT  CRY"  was  a  failure— and  a  melancholy 
failure  at  that.  Why  this  should  have  been  is  hard 
to  understand,  since,  as  a  play,  it  compared  favourably 
with  many  successful  productions  in  Eliphalet  Cardomay's 
repertoire.  Perhaps  the  truth  was  that  Eliphalet  was  getting 
old.  The  most  skilful  tricks  of  lighting  and  make-up  failed 
to  conceal  this  obvious  fact. 

"He  ought  to  retire,"  said  the  wise  playgoers,  as  they 
passed  sorrowfully  from  the  theatre.  "A  fine  old  chap, 
but  he's  stopping  too  long." 

There  is  nothing  in  the  world  destroys  confidence  more 
quickly  than  this  kind  of  talk,  and  nothing  is  more  easily 
destroyed  than  an  actor's  reputation.  People  repeat  such 
phrases  for  want  of  something  better  to  say,  and  slowly  but 
surely  it  comes  back  to  ears  that  are  ever  attentive  for  a 
hint  of  the  kind — attentive  because  their  owner's  pockets 
are  affected. 

For  the  last  five  seasons  Eliphalet's  receipts  had  shown 
a  gradual,  almost  imperceptible  decline,  but  it  was  not 
until  the  production  of  "The  Night  Cry"  that  the  fall  was 
considerable.  And  it  was  considerable  1  The  vibrations 
set  in  motion  thereby  automatically  were  felt  afar  and 
closed  the  purses  of  the  four  commercial  gentlemen  who 
formed  his  syndicate. 

227 


228  THE   OLD   CARD 

Eliphalet  was  distressed  at  the  want  of  success,  but  phil- 
osophical. He  reflected  with  gratification  that  it  had  not 
been  his  wish  to  do  the  play.  He  had  asked  for  support  for 
a  production  of  "Hamlet,"  and  had  been  denied;  thus,  not 
unreasonably,  he  conjectured  this  might  prove  a  lesson  to 
his  syndicate  for  the  future  to  respect  his  judgments.  Be- 
sides which,  a  certain  percentage  of  failures  was  inevitable, 
and  in  all  his  career  that  percentage  had  been  very  low. 

Every  Christmas  he  and  the  syndicate  met  to  discuss  the 
past  year's  work  and  make  future  plans,  and  this  was 
always  the  occasion  for  a  little  ceremony.  Eliphalet  brought 
with  him  four  boxes  of  Half  Coronas,  and  one  of  these  he 
solemnly  presented  to  each  member  of  the  board.  They, 
although  offering  no  tangible  return,  would  express  a  sur- 
prised gratification  and  a  vote  of  cordial  appreciation  for 
his  artistic  energies  exerted  on  their  behalf.  A  luncheon- 
party  would  follow,  which  broke  up  with  handshakes  and 
good  and  seasonable  wishes. 

But  on  this  particular  year  Eliphalet  felt,  no  sooner  he 
had  entered  the  room,  that  there  was  a  strange  atmosphere. 
Each  of  the  four  gentlemen  showed  embarrassment  and  dis- 
inclination to  meet  his  eye.  The  cigars  were  presented  and 
accepted,  which  appeared  to  heighten  the  general  unease. 
Then  the  chairman  rose  and  called  upon  Dr.  Wardluke  to 
address  the  meeting,  as  his  own  powers  of  speech  were  af- 
fected by  a  recent  cold. 

So  the  doctor,  after  some  rustling  of  papers  and  a  deal 
of  pulling  at  his  waistcoat,  came  to  his  feet  and  spoke. 

It  was,  he  said,  a  great  pleasure  to  them  all  to  observe 
that  Mr.  Cardomay  had  been  spared  to  attend  another  of 
these  pleasant  annual  meetings,  and  he  was  sure  that  none 
of  them  contemplated  the  fact  that  this  was  to  be  the  last 


CLOUDS  229 

without  sensations  of  regret.  Their  association  had  been 
more  than  pleasant — it  had  been  cordial;  but  sooner  or  later 
the  best  of  things  came  to  an  end. 

"Mr.  Cardomay  has  been  a  loyal  colleague  to  us,  Gentle- 
men, and  I  venture  to  say  we  have  been  as  loyal  to  him. 
But  what  was  it  that  ^Esop  said  about  the  bow?"  No 
one  appeared  to  know.  "Well,  I  can't  recall  the  exact  words, 
but  they  go  to  prove  that  you  must  not  strain  anything 
beyond  its  limit.  It  makes  us  very  happy  to  reflect  that, 
mainly  through  our  support,  Mr.  Cardomay  must  now  be  in 
a  comfortable  financial  position,  and  it  will  be  pleasant  to 
think  of  him  spending  his  autumn  years  in  some  quiet  little 
nook,  standing  back  from  the  road."  He  resumed  his  seat 
to  an  encouraging  salvo  of  "Hear,  hear!" 

Then  Eliphalet  Cardomay  rose,  and  he  looked  a  little 
white  and  drawn. 

"I  take  it,"  he  said,  "by  all  this  preamble,  you  wish  me 
well,  and  for  that  I  express  my  thanks.  I  was  not  aware 
you  intended  to  break  up  our  partnership,  and  perhaps  it 
would  have  been  more  business-like  and  kinder  to  have  in- 
formed me  beforehand.  However,  that  may  pass.  Doubt- 
less, from  your  point  of  view,  Gentlemen,  I  am  an  old  pair 
of  shoes  to  be  thrown  aside  as  outworn,  but  I  would  remind 
you  that  this" — and  he  pointed  with  his  stick  to  a  play-bill 
of  "The  Night  Cry"  hanging  on  a  wall— "this  is  the  first 
time  they  have  let  in  the  water.  I  accept  my  dismissal, 
Gentlemen,  without  demur,  but  reserve  to  myself  the  right 
to  choose  the  hour  of  my  retirement  to  that  ivy-clad  nook 
Dr.  Wardluke  painted  with  such  eloquent  impertinence  in 
his  speech.  I  would  further  recommend  you  to  keep  an 
eye  on  the  theatrical  columns  of  your  newspapers,  where  you 
may  see  that  these  old  shoes  are  still  capable  of  covering  a 


230  THE   OLD   CARD 

good  many  miles  of  the  road.  Good  day,  Gentlemen,  and 
good-bye."  He  swung  his  hat  to  his  head  like  a  cavalier, 
and  walked  proudly  from  the  room. 

He  booked  a  ticket  to  New  Brighton,  where,  at  the  con- 
clusion of  her  first  film  engagement,  Mornice  had  joined 
him.  It  had  always  lived  in  Eliphalet's  brain  that  when  he 
retired  it  would  be  to  dwell  within  sight  of  the  sea  in  that 
most  delightful  of  resorts.  The  circumstances  of  staying 
there  at  the  hour  of  his  dismissal  struck  him  as  coldly  pro- 
phetic. 

"But  we  haven't  finished  yet,"  he  said,  as  the  train  bore 
him  westward.  "We'll  show  'em  there's  stuff  in  the  Old 
Card  still ! "  No  actor  properly  realises  he  has  outstayed  his 
welcome  until  his  backers  forsake  him,  and  even  Eliphalet 
was  not  convinced. 

There  was  enthusiasm  in  his  voice  and  fire  in  his  eye.  But 
the  train  had  not  travelled  many  miles  before  the  enthusi- 
asm died  and  a  queer  gnawing  doubt  assailed  him.  Was  it 
possible,  after  all,  these  gentlemen  were  right?  Would  it 
not,  perhaps,  be  better  to  slip  away  from  the  haste  and  tur- 
moil of  active  life  and  seek  out  that  little  villa  of  his  own? 
After  all,  he  had  fought  nobly  and  successfully,  and  surely 
the  right  to  repose  had  been  well  earned? 

There  was  standing  to  his  credit  at  the  bank  enough,  and 
more  than  enough,  to  assure  a  comfortable  competence  to 
the  end  of  his  days.  Perhaps,  too,  he  was  a  little  tired. 
He  had  run  without  stopping  for  so  many,  many  years. 
Then  he  thought  of  his  boasts  to  the  syndicate. 

"We'll  challenge  'em,  old  boy,  and  we  must  make  good!' 

There  was  Mornice,  too,  to  be  considered.  He  had  prom- 
ised her  a  big  chance,  and  it  was  up  to  him  to  meet  the 
bill. 


CLOUDS  231 

Ronald  Knight  had  come  over  to  spend  the  day  with 
Mornice  (a  not  infrequent  occurrence),  and  they  rose,  ap- 
parently from  the  same  chair,  as  he  entered  the  room.  May- 
be they  were  a  shade  embarrassed,  for  neither  one  nor  the 
other  asked  how  the  meeting  had  gone,  but,  instead,  gave 
themselves  over  to  expressions  of  almost  unnatural  delight 
at  his  return.  Consequently,  tea  passed  without  the  subject 
being  mentioned. 

Glancing  from  one  to  the  other,  Eliphalet  was  conscious 
of  an  air  of  supreme  excitement  shared  between  them. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "has  the  Mornice  film  been — what  is 
the  word? — released  yet?" 

Ronald  Knight  shook  his  head. 

"N-no,  not  yet.  Matter  of  fact,  we've  had  rather  bad 
luck — very  bad.  No  one  seems  to  care  for  the  story."  Eli- 
phalet smiled  rather  cynically,  and  the  young  man  hastened 
to  add:  "But  Moray  has  made  an  enormous  success.  Ter- 
rific! We  had  a  private  projection." 

"A  what?" 

"A  private  show." 

"Ah,  yes!     Well?" 

"With  big-wigs  from  the  best  firms,  and  they  are  abso- 
lutely unanimous  that  she's  it." 

Mornice  tried  not  to  look  too  proud,  but  the  artifice 
was  transparent.  Eliphalet  frowned  a  little. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said.  "She  is  certainly  very  capable— 
of  better  things." 

"Yes;  I  know  you  hate  movies,"  said  Mornice. 

He  nodded. 

Ronald  started  afresh. 

"A  success  like  that,  even  at  a  private  proj-show,  means 
a  great  deal,  and " 


232  THE    OLD    CARD 

"And,"  Eliphalet  cut  in,  "you  are  now  going  to  tell  me 
she  has  had  some  flattering  offers  and  ask  me  to  let  her 
accept  them,  knowing  very  well  that  the  last  time  I  allowed 
her  to  do  so  was  on  the  undertaking  that  she  returned 
to  the  legitimate  at  the  end  of  the  engagement." 

Ronald's  reply  was  unexpected. 

"That's  just  what  I — what  she — what  I'm  sure  we  all 
feel  she  ought  to  do." 

"I  want  to,  awfully,"  exclaimed  Mornice;  "in  something 
Oh,  you  go  on,  Ronny." 

"It  is  only  that  people — people  in  the  show  believe  there 
is  such  big  stuff  in  her  that  makes  me  suggest  it."  He  hesi- 
tated. 

Eliphalet  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled  indulgently 
to  help  him  along. 

"We  all  know  she  is  a  young  Modjeska — a  little  Bern- 
hardt — eh,  Mornice?" 

"You  needn't  be  saucy,  Dads.  After  all,  he's  only  re- 
peating what  they  think.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am 
great." 

(Very  few  actors  and  actresses  are  absolutely  certain  on 
this  point,  but  most  of  them  have  a  comfortable  convic- 
tion, even  though  they  may  not  express  it.) 

Eliphalet  had  seen  little  heads  swell  large  too  often  to 
be  surprised.  He  nodded  to  Ronald  Knight  to  proceed. 

"Everybody  who  saw  her  in  that  film  believed  she'd 
make  a  fortune  on  the  legitimate  stage." 

The  potential  gold-mine,  and  certainly  her  mass  of  hair 
was  in  itself  a  large  enough  nugget,  was  licking  jam  from 
a  sticky  finger  like  a  child  at  a  school-treat. 

"All  right,  Ron,"  she  said.    "Go  on  now  about  the  play." 

Thus  adjured,  Ronald  drew  breath  for  fresh  adventures. 


CLOUDS  233 

"D'you  remember,  sir,  a  few  years  ago  buying  a  play? — 
'A  Man's  Way'  it  was  called.  You  never  put  it  on." 

"I  remember — yes.  A  fine,  vigorous  piece  of  work.  I 
made  some  alterations  to  the  text.  But  somehow  it  wasn't 
satisfactory.  But  why?" 

"It  was  written  by  a  cousin  of  mine.  I  happened  to  men- 
tion your  name,  and  he  showed  it  to  me.  By  Jove,  it's 
magnificent!  Now,  as  it  was  in  the  original  form,  that  play, 
with  Morny  as  the  wife — 

"Oh,  come!     A  very,  very  difficult  part,  my  dear  boy." 

"You  haven't  seen  her  on  the  film." 

"H'm!     Well,  I  must  look  it  up." 

"It's  here,"  said  Mornice.  "I  rummaged  it  out  of  your 
basket."  She  produced  the  MS.  from  beneath  a  sofa  cush- 
ion. 

Eliphalet  turned  over  a  few  pages,  stopping  here  and 
there.  A  startling  modernity  still  seemed  to  spring  from 
every  line. 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  its  worth,"  he  mused;  "but  so  very 
modern!" 

"Yes,  but,  Dads,  isn't  that  just  what  it  should  be?  And 
it  is  such  a  wonderful  part." 

"I  doubt  if  it  would  suit  me." 

"The  wife's,  I  mean." 

"I  believe,"  said  Ronald,  "people  are  getting  tired  of 
old-fashioned  plays." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Eliphalet.  "I  wonder  if  that  is 

why "  He  stopped,  frowned,  and  struck  the  table  a 

blow." 

"What  is  it,  Dads?" 

"Everyone  wants  to  alter  the  tide  of  my  life  to-day." 
He  rose  and  started  to  pace  excitedly  up  and  down  the 


234  THE    °LD    CARD 

room.  "Why  is  it?  You  want  me  to  break  new  ground, 
plough  fresh  pastures;  and  they,  they  say  I  am  done  with — 
finished!" 

"Who  said  that?" 

"My  syndicate.  They  spoke  of  a  rustic  cottage,  standing 
back  from  the  road,  in  which  to  spend  the  autumn  of  my 
life." 

"How  dared  they!    What  did  you  answer?" 

"I  told  them  to  read  the  theatrical  news — that  was  all." 

"Bravo!"  applauded  Ronald,  with  great  sincerity,  add- 
ing: "Then,  by  Jove!  if  you  did  this  play,  starring  yourself 
and  Moray,  wouldn't  it  be  a  terrific  smack  in  the  eye  for 
them!" 

"I  am  nearly  seventy,"  replied  Eliphalet,  "and  I  suppose 
it  is  wrong  and  foolish  at  such  an  age,  but  I  would  like 
to  show  'em  something,  I  would!" 

"Why  don't  you?"  said  Ronald  and  Mornice,  in  one  voice. 

When,  some  three  days  later,  Eliphalet  sought  Freddie 
Manning,  wisest  and  most  energetic  of  stage-managers,  and 
told  him  what  had  happened  and  what  he  intended  to  do, 
Freddie  spoke  up  boldly. 

"Don't  you,  Guv'nor!" 

"I  shall,  Manning.  It's  a  final  cast,  and  I  mean  to  go  out 
with  a  flourish.  We  shall  advertise  it  as  a  farewell  tour. 
New  scenery — posters — everything." 

"And  who's  backing  you?" 

"I  am." 

Freddie  cast  his  eyes  above,  but  held  his  peace. 

"I  shall  star  Mornice  in  equivalent  type  to  my  own." 

"Don't  you,"  repeated  Manning.  "If  she's  a  wash-out, 
the  come-back  will  be  twice  as  strong." 

"I  take  the  risk.    I  am  going  to  produce  'A  Man's  Way' 


CLOUDS  235 

in  the  original  form,  and  in  every  respect  to  rival  a  West- 
End  production.  I  shall  have  wooden  doors,  and  the 
scenery  will  be  three-ply  instead  of  canvas." 

"And  I  suppose  you'll  have  a  West-End  cast  as  well?" 

Eliphalet  shook  his  head. 

"I  had  thought  of  it,"  he  confessed,  "but  I  cannot  go  back 
on  the  Old  Crowd.  There  will  be  only  one  newcomer  be- 
sides Mornice,  and  that  will  be  Mr.  Ronald  Knight.  For 
the  rest,  the  Old  Cardomay  Company  will  see  Old  Cardo- 
may  out.  As  regards  booking,  I  shall  accept  the  best  No.  1 
towns  only,  and  shall  book  a  three  months'  tour;  not  at 
the  drama  houses,  but  at  the  principal  theatres  in  every 
case." 

Freddie  Manning  tilted  his  bowler  hat  to  the  extreme  limit 
of  possible  angles. 

"Guv'nor,"  he  said,  "God  alone  remembers  how  long 
we've  been  together.  I  was  a  super-boy  in  the  crowd  when 
you  were  playing  juveniles;  and  boy,  man  and  veteran,  we've 
fought  side  by  side  in  nearly  every  shack  with  footlights 
from  Land's  End  to  John  o' — what's-'is-name.  You've  stuck 
by  me  fine,  and  I'll  stick  by  you  to  the  end  and  past  it. 
I've  never  openly  countered  a  scheme  of  yours,  though  I 
may  have  pulled  a  few  strings  on  the  quiet;  but  this  time 
I  do,  and  as  man  to  man,  I  put  it  down  that  you  cut  it 
out — right  out.  If  the  advice  ain't  wanted,  say  so  and  111 
buckle  on  to  the  new  job  for  all  I'm  worth;  but  those  are 
my  feelings,  Guv'nor,  and  I  had  to  speak  'em." 

"I  know,  Manning,  I  quite  understand.  Likely  enough 
you  are  right,  and  this  is  a  great  folly.  But  I  want  to  do 
it — I  want  to  make  one  final  splash." 

"Good  enough,"  said  Freddie.  "I'll  get  busy  straight 
away." 


236  THE    OLD    CARD 

When  Freddie  Manning  got  busy,  busy  he  undoubtedly 
was.  Eliphalet  told  him  to  go  ahead  with  the  scene  folk, 
the  costumers,  the  advertising  experts,  and  two  thousand 
pounds. 

As  a  general  rule,  ladies  and  gentlemen  provide  their  own 
modern  clothes  for  provincial  tours,  but  in  this  case,  in  the 
matter  of  ladies,  Eliphalet  departed  from  precedent  and 
undertook  the  responsibility  of  providing  them.  To  the 
gentlemen  he  addressed  the  following  words: 

"I  want  this  production  to  be  memorable,  and  to  that  end 
everyone  who  appears  in  it  must  appear  under  circum- 
stances most  agreeable  to  the  eye.  In  our  profession  it 
is  not  always  possible  to  maintain  one's  wardrobe  at  a 
state  of  perfection,  and  we  are  over-liable,  perhaps,  to  run 
our  suitings  beyond  the  limits  of  appearance  and  durability. 
To  encourage  you  all,  then,  to  do  justice  to  me  and  the 
play,  I  propose  to  pay  an  additional  twenty-five  per  cent  on 
your  ordinary  salaries.  One  more  word,  Gentlemen,  and  I 
have  done.  We  are  all  tradesmen,  with  the  trade  at  our 
finger-tips.  Let  us  show  that  we,  of  the  provincial  theatres, 
can  give,  in  appearance,  intelligence  and  art,  as  good  (if 
not  better)  measure  as  our  brothers  in  the  capital." 

Then  the  rehearsal  began. 

At  the  first  reading  Eliphalet  was  delighted.  The  play 
seemed  to  act  itself.  He  experienced  an  odd  sensation  that 
there  was  little  or  nothing  for  the  producer  to  do — that  it 
rested  with  the  company  to  commit  to  memory  their  lines 
and  repeat  them  from  appropriate  positions  upon  the  stage. 
He  had  not  realised  that  the  true  human  modern  play  is 
almost  automatic,  and  that  its  crises  arise  from  the  general 
team-work  of  the  company,  and  not  by  individual  effects. 


CLOUDS  237 

"If  it  goes  so  well  while  they  are  holding  their  books, 
what  will  it  be  when  I  have  shaped  it  up?"  he  thought. 

In  the  midst  of  these  agreeable  reflections  he  failed  to 
observe  a  very  obvious  change  had  taken  place  in  Mornice. 
Since  persuading  him  to  do  this  play  and  place  her  among 
the  stars,  she  underwent  a  complete  metamorphosis  of  man- 
ner. She  adopted  the  worst  characteristics  of  a  leading 
lady.  She  gave  the  company  good-morning  each  day  with 
an  air  of  great  condescension.  She  trespassed  into  that  for- 
bidden Tom  Tiddler's  Ground  near  the  centre  of  the  foot- 
lights reserved  for  producers  and  the  managerial  branch. 
She  devoted  less  attention  to  her  part  than  to  criticisms  of 
other  people's  renderings.  She  would  follow  members  of 
the  company  to  dark  parts  of  the  stage  and  give  advices 
that  were  neither  desired  nor  of  the  smallest  value. 

You  who  read  these  pages,  do  not  be  too  severe  in  your 
judgments  upon  her.  In  a  scarcely-formed  mind  certain 
mental  conditions  inevitably  result  from  success  or  promi- 
nence upon  the  stage  too  soon.  A  name  seen  by  its  owner 
for  the  first  time  on  the  hoardings  in  three-inch  block  type 
acts  as  an  intoxicant.  Mercifully,  the  condition  is  transi- 
tory, and  you  will  find  that  your  really  successful  actor  or 
actress  is,  as  a  rule,  the  jolliest  and  least  sidey  of  individuals. 

It  was  her  idea,  supported  by  Ronald  Knight,  that  the 
women's  costumes  should  come  from  Redfern's — it  was  she 
who  had  seen  the  magic  three-ply  scenery  at  Wyndham's, 
that  does  not  vibrate  when  Mr.  du  Maurier  goes  forth  and 
closes  the  door  crisply  behind  him. 

To  do  the  young  people  justice,  they  never  for  an  instant 
thought  they  were  doing  otherwise  than  serving  Eliphalet 
1  an  excellent  turn  by  their  exuberant  suggestions. 

"He's  a  darling,  Ronnie,"  Mornice  would  say,  most  days; 


238  THE    OLD    CARD 

"but  he  is  old-fashioned,  and  if  we  are  to  make  the  play  go, 
we  must  modernise  him." 

But  window-boxes  on  the  pyramids  will  not  make  them 
resemble  art  villas  at  Letchworth,  and  this  fact  they  learnt 
too  late  to  be  of  use. 

Naturally,  these  many  preoccupations  kept  Mornice  so 
busy  that  the  study  of  her  part  was  almost  entirely  side- 
tracked, but  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  entertain  misgivings 
on  that  account. 

About  this  time  a  slight  staleness  was  discernible  in  the 
progress  of  the  play.  Eliphalet  could  not  tell  whence  it 
arose  or  how  to  combat  it,  but  vaguely  he  wished  for  the 
services  of  some  virile  brain  other  than  his  own  to  preside 
at  rehearsals.  Mr.  Raymond  Wakefield,  for  instance,  who 
had  tied  him  up  in  such  painful  knots  on  the  occasion  of 
his  appearance  in  London.  He  would  have  known  in  an 
instant  what  was  required. 

There  were  legions  of  tiny  but  vital  subtleties  that  cried 
out  for  definition,  and  in  all  Eliphalet's  bag  of  tricks  there 
was  no  machinery  for  bringing  them  into  focus.  In  every 
scene  they  bubbled  up  through  the  lines,  like  vortices  in 
quicksand.  A  thousand  fine  points  of  psychology  that 
needed  assembling,  refining  and  giving  prominence.  Eli- 
phalet was  bewildered  by  their  numbers;  he  did  not  know 
where  or  how  to  start  work  upon  them,  and  he  sat  by  the 
footlights,  brows  contracted,  finger-tips  together,  in  silent 
dissatisfaction  with  himself  and  the  play.  On  the  seventh 
day  of  rehearsals  he  rose  distractedly,  and  exclaimed: 

"We  are  not  getting  on,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  I  am 
sure  we  are  all  doing  our  best,  but  we  are  not  getting  any 
forrader." 

Then  old  Kitterson  spoke. 


CLOUDS  239 

"I  know  it,  Guv'nor;  but  it's  devilish  hard.  How  are  we 
going  to  get  big  effects  out  of  these  lines?  I'm  not  saying 
anything  against  'em,  mind." 

"It's  so  natural,  Guv'nor,"  complained  Mellish,  another 
old-timer. 

Miss  Fullar  shook  her  head  wisely.  "That's  it;  too  na- 
tural." 

"It  is  not  for  big  effects  we  must  try,"  said  Eliphalet, 
"but  for  the  little  ones.  The  big  effects  in  this  play  arise 
from  the  little.  Therefore  we  must  try  to  create  a  standard 
excellence." 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  nearest  approach  toward  expressing 
the  essentials  of  a  modern  production  he  ever  made. 

"Yes,  but  how  are  we  to  do  it?"  old  Kitterson  ques- 
tioned. 

"Oh,  we  shall  see,"  said  Eliphalet,  rather  feebly,  and  sub- 
sided into  his  chair  again. 

At  supper  that  night  he  was  rather  dejected. 

"Cheer  up,  Dads,"  said  Mornice.  "After  all,  you  and  I 
have  most  of  the  work  to  do,  and  we  shall  make  things  go." 

He  answered  her  rather  seriously. 

"I  can  see  what  to  do  with  you,"  he  said,  "for  you  are 
far  astray  from  the  part.  It  is  the  others  who  perplex  me." 

Mornice  was  taken  back. 

"I  know  I  am  not  up  to  the  mark  yet,"  she  replied,  "but 
I'll  let  myself  go  to-morrow."  Then,  quite  satisfied  that 
her  own  case  was  established,  she  turned  to  vital  matters. 
"Pummy!  you'll  have  to  get  your  hair  cut,  you  know.  You 
can't  possibly  play  a  smart  doctor,  and  keep  it  long." 

"I  have  realised  it,  my  child."  He  looked  at  her  with 
a  queer  smile,  and  said,  "Are  you  Delilah,  I  wonder?" 


240  THE   OLD   CARD 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Mornice  had  little  knowledge 
of  the  Old  Testament.  She  asked  for  particulars. 

"A  lady  who  cut  off  Samson's  hair.  Shorn  of  his  locks, 
his  power  departed."  Then  his  mind  came  from  east  to 
west  with  a  vengeance.  "I  am  glad  I  took  you  from  the 
Cinema  before  it  was  too  late." 

"Too  late?" 

"H'm.  You  are  cinema-acting  very  alarmingly  in  'A  Man's 
Way.'  Coding,  my  dear,  coding;  I  will  show  you  to-mor- 
row." 

On  the  morrow  he  was  ready  for  her  in  earnest,  and  real- 
ising this,  Mornice  flung  herself  into  the  part  with  startling 
energy.  He  did  not  allow  her  to  go  far  before  holding 
up  his  hand. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "try  to  remember  you  are  playing  the 
part  of  a  married  woman  who  is  at  variance  with  her  elderly 
husband.  Do  not  therefore  swing  an  imaginary  sun-bon- 
net, or  smile  and  blink  your  eyes  at  the  audience,  as  though 
each  one  was  a  potential  lover.  You  have  three  acts  in 
which  to  gain  their  affections — not  thirty  feet  of  film." 

"Oh,  you  are  horrid,"  said  she. 

"Not  at  all.  Believe  me,  this — this  bright  stuff  is  entirely 
misplaced." 

So  she  came  on  again,  and  this  time  resembled  a  woman 
torn  by  conscience  after  rifling  a  church  of  its  plate. 

"And  now  you  go  to  the  opposite  extreme — you  will  have 
no  emotions  left  for  the  big  moment  in  the  last  act,  if  the 
opening  of  a  door  causes  you  so  much  distress." 

When  the  ordeal  was  over,  Mornice  was  a  trifle  piqued. 

"I  don't  think  he  ought  to  have  gone  for  me  like  that 
before  the  company,  Ron — do  you?" 

But  Ronald  Knight  was  an  honest  lad,  and  answered: 


CLOUDS  241 

"After  all,  there  was  sound  stuff  in  what  he  said." 

A  reply  which  put  him  in  prompt  disfavour  for  a  period 
of  twenty-six  hours,  at  the  end  of  which  time  they  met,  by 
a  kind  of  mutual  magnetism,  and  kissed  each  other  with 
enthusiasm  in  the  dressing-room  corridor. 

"You  are  sorry  for  what  you  said?" 

"I  am  sorry  it  offended  you,  but  I  think  it  is  up  to  us  to 
do  what  the  old  chap  wants.  After  all,  he's  taking  a  big 
risk." 

Ronald  Knight  was  beginning  to  feel  some  uneasiness 
about  the  wheels  he  had  set  in  motion.  Having  some  knowl- 
edge of  what  a  well-put-on  production  costs,  he  wondered  if 
Eliphalet's  resources  were  up  to  the  strain. 

To  do  them  justice,  the  company  worked  like  Trojans.  It 
is  true,  some  of  their  energies  were  misplaced,  but  they  were 
all  well-intentioned.  Miss  Fullar,  for  instance,  as  the  duch- 
ess, gave  the  impression  that  the  duke  had  married  far  be- 
neath his  social  station.  This  impression  was  partially  oblit- 
erated when  the  duke  himself  appeared  in  the  second  act, 
and  gave  place  to  doubts  as  to  how  the  lady  could  ever  have 
accepted  his  addresses.  Mellish  played  a  man-about-town, 
but  had  the  misfortune  to  choose  the  wrong  town,  and  never 
once  came  within  the  four-mile  radius. 

Old  Kitterson's  butler  was  sound — he  had  specialised  in 
this  line  for  many  years — but  the  part  caused  him  great 
disappointment,  since  there  was  nothing  to  do  or  say  that 
was  not  strictly  in  the  way  of  domestic  service.  Not  once 
in  any  act  did  he  have  the  opportunity  to  exclaim,  "God! 
it's  Master  Harry!"  followed  by  a  stumble  forward,  a  hand- 
grip and  a  sobbing  "Sir— sir!"  He  asked  Eliphalet  whether 
this  popular  effect  could  not  have  been  introduced  into  the 


242  THE   OLD    CARD 

text,  but  Eliphalet  turned  a  kindly  but  deaf  ear  to  the 
appeal. 

Ronald  Knight  was  one  of  the  bright  features,  and  took 
his  place  becomingly  in  the  general  scheme  of  things. 

One  regrets  to  record  that  Mornice  June  was  neither 
"great"  nor  "it."  She  divided  her  role  into  small  crumbs 
of  individual  effect.  It  was  as  though  she  had  installed  a 
mental  switchboard,  labelled  with  such  tickets  as  Anger — 
Remorse — Sarcasm — Gaiety — Malice — (but  never  afore- 
thought) . 

Eliphalet  Cardomay,  although  the  part  was  wholly  un- 
suited  to  his  personality,  gave  the  best  and  most  illuminating 
performance  of  his  whole  career.  It  was  totally  unlike  his 
usual  traditional  method,  and  precisely  like  it  should  have 
been.  Quite  naturally  he  seemed  to  know  what  to  do  and 
how  to  do  it  with  the  least  possible  effort.  It  was  a  queer 
caprice  of  Pate  that  this  simple  method  that  he  had  viewed 
with  a  kind  of  disrespectful  sour-grapes  awe  should  suddenly 
have  been  made  clear  to  him. 

He  played  the  part,  so  to  speak,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  marvellous  discoveries  came  his  way.  For  in- 
stance, he  discovered  that  when  a  man  is  saying  to  his  wife, 
"You  can  go — you  can  get  out,"  he  does  not  of  necessity 
take  a  position  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  and  throw  a  fine 
gesture  toward  the  door,  but  is  more  likely  to  scratch  his 
own  ear  or  perform  some  other  minor  diversion.  That  this 
mantle  of  naturalness  should  have  descended  upon  him  made 
him  aM  the  more  sensitive  to  the  shortcomings  of  the  cast. 
It  was  cruel  he  should  have  learnt  the  value  of  simplicity  too 
late  to  be  able  to  teach  it  to  others;  for  that  was  the  bitter 
truth. 

He  would  lie  awake  at  night,  thinking,  and  his  thoughts 


CLOUDS  243 

were  far  from  peaceful.  Supposing,  after  this  supreme  ef- 
fort, the  play  failed?  It  would  mean  the  loss  of  everything 
to  him.  His  capital,  his  nerve,  and  his  hopes  for  Mornice 
would  perish  at  a  single  blow.  "Let  it  succeed,"  he  im- 
plored, and  the  words  were  a  prayer.  "I  want  the  little  girl 
to  have  her  chance." 

They  were  not  healthy  thoughts,  and  they  snatched  at  him 
all  hours  of  the  day  and  night.  In  the  night  especially  they 
would  prod  him  into  wakefulness.  He  would  see  pictures 
of  the  grey,  back-street  under-world,  where  the  unwanted 
actors  go.  They  danced  before  his  eyes  like  green  spots 
with  scarlet  centres. 

The  strain  told,  after  a  while,  and  he  came  to  rehearsals 
haggard-eyed  and  irritable. 

There  is  nothing  like  irritability  for  getting  the  worst  out 
of  a  company — not  so  much  because  they  resent  it  as  be- 
cause it  makes  them  nervy  and  distracts  their  thoughts. 

On  the  day  he  had  his  hair  cut  he  felt  that  his  strength 
had  departed  indeed. 

He  had  arranged  that  there  would  be  dress-rehearsals 
for  a  week,  that  the  company  might  become  accustomed 
to  their  clothes.  The  first  of  these  depressed  him  as  noth- 
ing had  ever  done  before.  The  women's  gowns  had  cost 
nearly  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  and,  beautiful  as  they 
were,  they  looked  woefully  out  of  place  on  the  backs  of  the 
Old  Cardomay  Company.  Mellish,  who  had  done  his  best 
to  achieve  the  outward  appearance  of  a  man-about-town, 
cut  a  pathetic  figure,  despite  the  variety  of  his  checks.  He 
gave  the  effect  of  being  arrayed  in  his  Sunday  suit,  and 
wore  a  buttonhole  of  daffodils  in  the  second  act.  Eliphalet 
was  conscious  of  something  amiss  with  most  of  them,  but 
could  not  lay  his  finger  on  the  point  of  offence.  On  the 


244  THE   OLD   CARD 

whole,  the  extravagances  of  wardrobe  seemed  to  cause  their 
wearers  added  uneasiness,  and  a  more  ungainly  performance 
he  had  never  beheld. 

"What  do  you  think,  Manning?"  he  asked,  tentatively, 
when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act. 

"Fine,"  was  the  stony  rejoiner. 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Eliphalet  very  softly. 

"You're  right,  Guv'nor;  it  is." 

"And  the  truth?" 

"They're  all  airift — 'cept  you.  They'll  drown  you  be- 
tween 'em." 

Eliphalet  seized  him  savagely  by  the  arm,  and  cried: 

"We  have  four  days  more,  Manning.  We  can't  afford 
to  leave  it  like  this.  I  shall  get  a  producer  from  London — 
at  any  price." 

He  rushed  to  the  nearest  Post  Office  and  wired  to  Ray- 
mond Wakefield,  begging  him  to  name  his  terms  to  attend 
a  rehearsal  of  "A  Man's  Way."  "If  not  for  terms,  then 
come  in  pity,"  he  ended. 

Wakefield  wired  to  say  he  would  arrive  next  morning 
by  eleven-thirty. 

Eliphalet  called  a  full-dress  rehearsal,  with  lights,  for  two 
o'clock,  and  met  Wakefield  at  the  station. 

Even  though  several  years  had  passed  since  their  last 
meeting,  Eliphalet  was  struck  with  the  same  extraordinary 
appearance  of  youthfulness  borne  by  the  eminent  producer. 

"I've  come  for  love,  Mr.  Cardomay,  and  because  your 
wire  breathed  tragedy.  What's  the  sorrow?" 

"Second  childhood,"  said  Eliphalet  pathetically. 

"Producing  'A  Man's  Way,'  aren't  you?  Must  say  it  sur- 
prised me  a  bit.  Plucky  of  you.  Good  play.  Came  to  us 
once." 


CLOUDS  245 

"You  know  it,  then?" 

"Yes;  thought  of  putting  it  up." 

"That's  splendid  news,"  said  Eliphalet,  with  a  sudden  re- 
vival of  confidence. 

"How's  it  shaped?" 

"You'll  see,"  said  Eliphalet;  then,  with  a  wail  in  his 
voice,  "It  has  gone  beyond  my  powers,  Mr.  Wakefield,  and 
I  feel  so  old." 

"We  all  do  before  a  new  production,"  came  the  cheerful 
reply. 

"I  don't  want  anyone  to  know  who  is  in  front,"  Elipha- 
let told  Manning,  "but  tell  the  company  I  look  to  them  to 
do  their  utmost." 

And  so  the  curtain  rose  and  fell  on  the  three  acts  of  "A 
Man's  Way,"  and  when  all  was  over  Raymond  Wakefield 
made  his  way  round  to  Eliphalet's  dressing-room  and  walked 
in,  whistling  cheerfully. 

"Well?"  queried  Eliphalet  nervously. 

"You  old  marvel,"  said  Raymond.  "How  d'you  com< 
to  do  it?" 

"Do  what?" 

"Act  like  that?" 

Eliphalet  flushed  like  a  schoolboy  praised  for  his  bowl- 
ing. 

"It  is  all  right,  then?" 

"You're  all  right.  You've  forgotten  all  you  learnt  in  a 
theatre,  and  are  playing  what  you've  learnt  in  life.  If  you 
were  twenty,  or  even  ten,  years  younger " 

"Yes,  I'm  too  old." 

"  'Course  you  are — and  too  old  for  this  part.  But  it's  a 
work.  You'll  get  no  gratitude,  though,  on  that  account.  I'll 
tell  you  what  the  public  and  the  papers'll  say.  They'll  say 


246  THE   OLD   CARD 

you  are  not  serving  them  with  the  goods  they're  accus- 
tomed to  receive,  and  you'll  get  slanged  for  default  as  sure 
as  there's  an  agent  in  Charing  Cross  Road." 

"What  about  the  others?" 

Raymond  Wakefield's  mouth  went  down  at  the  corners 
like  a  child  about  to  cry. 

"Won't  do!  You've  committed  the  unforgivable  sin  of 
standing  by  your  pals — oh,  I  know  you  have — and  art  and 
philanthropy  don't  mix  and  never  will.  My  motto  is  to 
sack  everyone  at  the  end  of  a  run,  and  then  look  round 
afresh.  In  consequence,  I  suppose  I'm  pretty  well  hated  by 
every  actor  on  the  London  stage,  and  the  best-beloved  of 
the  public." 

"And  Miss  Mornice  June — the  wife?"  Eliphalet  put  the 
question  tentatively. 

"Naughty,  very  naughty  indeed.  D'you  know  what  I'd 
do  with  her?" 

"She's  my  adopted  daughter,"  said  Eliphalet,  to  be  on 
the  safe  side. 

"I'd  put  her  in  the  Cinema  business,  and  live  luxuriously 
on  a  ten  per  cent,  commission  of  the  salary  she  earned." 

"Strange  you  should  say  that.  I  gave  her  this  part  to 
keep  her  away  from  the  Cinema." 

"Then  it  wasn't  fair  to  the  theatre  public — or  the  Cinema 
public  either." 

"Do  you  consider  our  chances  of  success  are  remote?" 

Raymond  dropped  his  cigarette  to  the  floor,  and  twisted 
it  out  with  the  heel  of  his  boot. 

"God,  He  knows!  It's  all  a  lottery.  You're  of  the 
provinces — you  should  be  able  to  say." 

"But  I  ask  you." 


CLOUDS  247 

"Well,  if  I  had  to  stake  my  last  farthing  in  a  theatrical 
venture,  it  would  not  be  in  this  one." 

"Thanks,"  said  Eliphalet.     "Mine  is." 

"Take  no  notice,"  Raymond  hastened  to  explain.  "It 
was  only  for  something  to  say.  Well,  I  must  be  going." 

"You — you  won't  stop  a  day  or  two  and  rehearse  us  a 
little?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  value  the  compliment,  but  I'm  too  conceited  to  reveal 
my  weakness." 

"Weakness?" 

"Yes,  for  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  help  'em.  I'll  let  you 
into  a  secret.  People  imagine  I  can  teach  anyone  to  act. 
I  can't.  All  I  can  do  is  to  know  who  would  be  right  in 
certain  parts.  Then  I  engage  'em,  and  their  combined  ele- 
ments give  forth  a  chemical  compound  known  as  a  Brilliant 
Production.  That's  the  whole  secret.  Tell  that  fellow — 
Mellish,  isn't  it? — not  to  wear  daffodils  in  his  buttonhole, 
and  to  cut  his  moustache  off  if  he  can't  let  it  alone — and  tell 
the  duchess  to  let  her  train  take  care  of  itself  when  she's  in 
a  drawing-room.  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Cardomay,  and  good 
luck." 

He  shook  hands  warmly,  and  hurried  away. 

"Poor  old  devil!"  he  muttered,  as  the  stage-door  swung 
to  behind  him.  One  might  have  imagined  that  there  was 
an  added  moisture  in  his  eyes  if  the  idea  were  not  so  absurd. 
A  specialist  has  no  feelings. 

About  a  week  later,  Doctor  Wardluke  met  Mr.  Wilfred 
Wilfur  in  the  street,  and  the  latter  gentleman  was  in  a 
state  of  unparalleled  excitement.  In  his  hand  he  flourished 
a  copy  of  the  Bradford  Mercury,  and  he  cried: 

"Seen  the  news?    Old  Cardomay  has  come  an  almighty 


248  THE    OLD    CARD 

cropper  with  that  production  of  his — knew  he  would — knew 
he  would!" 

And  the  two  late  members  of  the  Cardomay  Syndicate 
congratulated  themselves  most  cordially  on  the  happy  in- 
sight that  led  them  to  "get  out  of  it  in  time." 

The  papers  were  not  kind — they  were  not  even  discerning. 
As  Raymond  Wakefield  foretold,  they  were  mortally  of- 
fender with  Eliphalet  for  departing  from  his  usual  routine 
and  cutting  off  his  hair.  Because  they  were  accustomed  to 
see  this  actor  in  a  "robuster  class  of  work,"  they  totally 
ignored  the  excellent  quality  of  his  acting.  "There  are 
plenty  of  companies  who  can  provide  us  with  the  modern 
problem  play,  without  Mr.  Cardomay  doing  so.  We  look 
to  him  to  uphold  the  good  old  traditions  of  the  drama,  and 
instead "  etc. 

The  rest  of  the  cast  were  very  properly  chewed  up,  and 
questions  were  put  as  to  what  reasons  existed  for  advertising 
a  certain  unknown  and  very  amateurish  young  lady  as  a 
star. 

The  receipts  for  the  first  week  were  negligible,  and  the 
second  showed  a  substantial  margin  on  the  wrong  side. 

"We  have  ten  more  bookings,  and  I  must  play  them  out," 
said  Eliphalet  desperately. 

"What  are  the  fines  in  default  of  appearance?"  suggested 
Manning. 

But  Eliphalet  shook  his  head.  "It  woudn't  be  fair,"  he 
said.  "There's  the  company  to  consider.  I  promised  them 
three  months." 

"And  d'you  think  there's  a  single  damned  one  of  'em 
who'd  hold  you  to  that?"  came  the  fierce  rejoinder. 

"Let  us  lose  like  gentlemen,"  said  Eliphalet. 

And  his  savings  dripped  from  him  like  the  sweats  of  fear. 


CLOUDS  249 

He  was  very  silent  at  home  those  days,  and  week  by  week 
went  by  without  improvement.  He  would  sit  with  his  hands 
listlessly  down-hanging,  and  his  eyes  fixed  in  a  vacant, 
dreamy  stare. 

Moraice  did  her  best  to  brighten  things  up,  but  she  did  not 
understand  very  well  the  workings  of  his  mind.  Her  belief 
in  her  own  greatness,  too,  was  slow  to  abate,  and  it  was  not 
until  a  notice  appeared  in  the  Manchester  Guardian  (most 
delightfully  outspoken  of  organs)  that  illumination  came, 
and  she  realised  her  own  contribution  to  the  tragedy.  They 
gave  the  play  one  of  its  few  good  notices,  but  of  her  they 
spoke  with  a  frankness  that  allowed  of  no  misunderstanding. 

Being  by  nature  a  good-hearted  and  dear  little  girl,  she 
put  her  arms  about  one  of  the  red  fire-pails  on  a  dark  land- 
ing and  wept  with  such  pitiful  vibrations  that  the  water 
spilled  over  and  mingled  with  her  tears.  Here  Ronald 
Knight  found  her,  and  transposed  her  head  to  his  shoulder. 

"Everyone  gets  bad  notices  sooner  or  later,"  he  told  her. 
"But  listen,  Moray,  here's  something  to  cheer  you  up.  My 
father  has  had  an  offer  to  produce  for  Raphaeli's  Film  Com- 
pany in  America,  and  he  wants  you  to  come  out  and  play 
ingenues,  with  a  year's  guarantee." 

"D-does  he?" 

"Yes,  and  I  should  be  going  too.  It's  in  ten  days'  time 
he's  sailing,  just  after  we  close  here.  There!  You're  happy 
now,  aren't  you?" 

"N-no,"  she  sobbed,  kissing  him  to  cheer  herself  up  a 
bit.  "I'm  miserable — about  him." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Ronald.    "Horribly." 

"He  wouldn't  have  done  it  except  for  me." 

"Don't  forget  that  I  asked  him." 

"But  I  made  you,  Ronny.    What's  going  to  happen,  sup- 


250  THE   OLD    CARD 

posing  he's  lost  everything.  D'you  know,  I'm  beastly  fright- 
ened." 

"Let  us  go  and  talk  to  him,  Morny." 

They  went.  He  was  sitting  in  his  dressing-room,  idly 
twisting  a  fragment  of  paper  that  had  shown  the  night's 
returns.  He  looked  very  old. 

"Well?"  he  said,  lifelessly,  as  they  came  in. 

Then  Mornice  broke  out  with: 

"Oh,  we're  so  frightfully  sorry — we  want  to  tell  how 
frightfully  sorry  we  are." 

He  stretched  out  a  hand,  and  gathered  hers  into  it. 

"Why,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "you  mustn't  take  a  bad  notice 
to  heart." 

"It  isn't  that — I  know  now  I  ought  never  to  have  played 
the  part — but  it  was  my  beastly  conceit  that  made  you 
do  the  play." 

"And  I  ought  to  be  kicked  for  pushing  it  forward,"  said 
Ronald. 

"I've  watched  you  when  you  thought  you  were  alone, 
and  seen  how  dreadfully  sad  and  broken  you  looked,  and  I 
know  it's  because  I've  made  you  lose  all  your  money — isn't 
it?" 

A  something  eloquently  full  of  tragedy  and  sorrow  in  her 
voice  stung  Eliphalet  to  a  sudden  need  to  lie. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  he  exclaimed.  "Whatever  put  such 
a  fancy  into  your  silly  little  head?" 

"Because  it's  true." 

"My  dear,  dear,  dear  little  girl,  you  are  talking  nonsense. 
I  have  been  sad,  I  confess  it;  but  my  sorrow  was  for  you — 
I  feared  you  had  suffered  a  great  disappointment." 

"D'you  mean  that?" 

"Surely." 


CLOUDS  251 

"And  you'll  be  all  right  after  this?" 

He  laughed  lightly. 

"I  shouldn't  worry  about  that." 

"But  I  do— horribly." 

He  disposed  himself  in  a  position  of  some  importance. 

"Mornice,"  he  said,  "I  have  figured  now  in  nearly  forty 
productions,  most  of  them  successful.  Think  what  that 
means.  Am  I  to  be  crippled  by  a  single  false  move?  The 
idea  is  absurd.  Where  is  your  arithmetic,  my  dear?  Ask 
young  Ronald  here,  and  he'll  show  you  the  sum  on  paper. 
Maybe  I  shall  have  to  cut  things  a  trifle  finer  in  consequence 
of  this,  but  what  of  that?  No,  no,  no — my  sorrow  was  all 
for  you,  and  since  yours  has  ceased  to  be,  why,  then,  our 
sorrow  is  bankrupt,  and  we  are  all  glad  again." 

"You've  shifted  a  weight  from  my  mind,"  said  Ronald, 
with  an  outward  breath. 

And  Mornice  hugged  him  ecstatically. 

"  'T'any  rate,  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  drag  on  you  any 
more,"  she  said,  and  told  the  tale  of  the  American  offer. 

"Yes,"  said  Eliphalet,  "I  think  you  ought  to  accept.  It's 
a  selfish  confession,  my  dear,  and  I  want  you  to  believe  I 
would  have  done  my  best  for  you,  but  I  haven't  the  energy 
for  much  more  work.  Years  tell,  and  I  doubt  if  I  could 
stand  the  strain  of  another  big  venture.  I  mean  to  do  my- 
self well — luxuriously — in  that  little  cottage  with  the  ivy- 
clad  porch  that  stands  back  from  the  road.  You'd  have 
found  it  dull  there,  living  with  an  old  man." 

"I'd  have  loved  it — with  you." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  No,  you'd  be  kicking  the  glass  to 
flinders  in  a  week.  I  should  try  a  young  man  instead  of  an 
old  'un.  I  should  try  him."  He  tilted  his  head  toward 
Ronald  Knight. 


252  THE   OLD   CARD 

"I  wish  to  God  she  would,  sir,"  said  Ronald  devoutly. 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Mornice. 

"Then  do,"  said  Eliphalet;  "and  I  shall  be  left  without 
i  care  in  the  world,  to  enjoy  an  affluent  old  age." 

"You  mean  that,  Dads?" 

"  'Course  I  do.  But  don't  go  talking  about  it  in  the 
company,  or  everyone  will  be  trying  to  borrow." 

So  they  went  out,  laughing,  who  had  entered  in  tears. 

"Manning,"  said  Eliphalet,  when  the  stage-manager,  ac- 
cording to  his  custom,  looked  in  for  final  instructions,  "what 
d'you  think  we  could  realise  on  the  scenery  and  costumes?" 

"  'Bout  four  hundred.    Laon's  should  be  good  for  that." 

"H'm!  not  bad.  Tell  'em  we'll  sell.  Good  night,  Man- 
ning." 

"G'night,  Guv'nor." 

He  turned  over  the  pages  of  his  bank-book,  and  exam- 
ined the  balance.  "Ought  just  to  see  me  through,"  he  mut- 
tered; "and  then — four  hundred  pounds!" 

God  sends  happy  thoughts  when  most  they  are  needed, 
and  a  vision  arose  of  two  young  people  laughing  happily  as 
they  passed  from  the  room. 

"We  pulled  off  that  scene,  old  boy,"  he  said.  "Fairly 
brought  the  house  down." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  FINAL  CURTAIN 

A  KEEN  eye  would  have  failed  to  detect  Eliphalet  Car- 
domay's  real  feelings  during  the  last  week  of  his  last 
tour.     Outwardly  he  presented  the  appearance  of  a  man 
at  ease  with  his  conscience  and  at  peace  with  the  world. 

A  lucky  public  holiday  added  a  couple  of  really  good 
houses  to  the  week's  receipts,  and  the  thirty  sovereigns  that 
arose  therefrom  he  presented  to  Mornice  as  a  wedding  gift. 

With  many  thoughtful  considerations  he  helped  her  pur- 
chase a  trousseau  and  fixed  up  details  with  Ronald's  father. 
These  two  elderly  gentlemen  discussed  marriage  and  con- 
tracts with  the  cordial  gravity  such  important  matters  de- 
mand. 

The  entire  company  was  at  the  wedding,  and  very  smart 
indeed  was  the  appearance  they  presented.  Eliphalet  had 
given  the  ladies  the  Redfern  gowns  and  added  permission 
for  them  to  be  worn  at  the  church.  He  himself  was  most 
spruce,  a  white  gardenia  in  his  buttonhole  and  his  silk  hat 
(it  had  been  treated  with  stout  the  night  before  to  flatten 
the  nap)  reflected  the  sunshine  like  a  mirror. 

He  gave  away  the  bride  with  a  nobility  that  kings  might 
have  envied,  and  at  the  reception  which  followed,  the  little 
speech  he  made  was  full  of  the  happiest  moments.  He  ac- 
tually allowed  a  waiter  to  pour  him  out  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne, but  although  the  glass  was  certainly  emptied,  there 

253 


254  THE   OLD    CARD 

was  a  strong  rumour  running  that  an  aspidistra  close  at  hand 
received  the  wine. 

The  wedding  took  place  the  day  before  the  final  per- 
formance, and  the  happy  pair  departed  in  a  shower  of  con- 
fetti and  a  great  draught  from  waved  handkerchiefs,  to 
reappear  on  the  two  succeeding  nights  at  the  theatre. 

"I  want  to  say  good-bye  to  you  and  Ronald  to-morrow 
over  a  little  dinner,"  Eliphalet  whispered  to  the  bride.  "It 
will  be  easier  than  in  the  theatre.  It  is  going  to  be  rather 
hard  to  lose  you  altogether." 

She  and  Ronald  were  sailing  for  America,  and  were  going 
straight  to  Liverpool  after  the  curtain  had  fallen. 

Eliphalet  made  great  and  tender  preparations  for  that 
parting  feast,  and  laid  the  table  lovingly  with  his  own  hands. 
Then  at  six  o'clock  he  lit  the  fairy  candles  that  twinkled 
among  the  fruit  and  smilax,  and  waited.  And  Mornice  ar- 
rived, dressed  in  her  prettiest  trousseau  frock — all  by  herself. 

" Where  is  Ronald?"  he  asked. 

"I  told  him  to  stop  at  home,  Pummy.  I  sort  of  guessed 
you  want  me  by  my  lone." 

How  many  of  these  exquisitely-prepared  little  feasts  are 
left  untasted?  We  are  in  love — or  have  to  say  farewell — 
and  we  centre  all  our  beforehand  time  setting  out  rare  flow- 
ers, fair  dishes  and  delicate  appointments,  to  show  how  very 
greatly  we  care.  And  perhaps  someone  says,  "How  lovely 
of  you  to  do  all  this  to  me,"  or  maybe  breaks  a  white  rose 
from  its  stem  to  keep  in  memory. 

Then  a  hand  stretches  across  the  table,  and  another's 
takes  it,  and  the  little  dishes  are  all  neglected  and  the  fairy 
candles  burn  low.  After  the  long,  long  silence  and  unspoken 
words  of  love  or  parting,  it  all  breaks  up  into  a  commonplace 
putting  on  of  coats,  whistling  of  cabs,  or  catching  of  trains. 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  255 

Arm-in-arm  and  hugging  very  close  together,  they  walked 
to  the  theatre,  and  as  the  illuminated  face  of  the  Town  Hall 
clock  proved  beyond  question  they  were  late,  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  run  the  last  hundred  yards. 

Ronald  Knight  was  at  the  stage-door  and  was  cheered  to 
see  them  arrive  breathless  and  laughing. 

Then  Eliphalet  stooped  and  planted  a  hurried  kiss  on 
Mornice's  cheek. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy,"  he  said  almost  fiercely  to 
Ronald,  and  passed  through  the  swing-door  toward  his  dress- 
ing-room. 

He  had  meant  to  make  a  speech  on  the  day  he  went  out 
of  management,  and  the  company,  knowing  this,  grouped 
themselves  on  the  stage  when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last 
act.  .Then,  quite  naturally,  he  knew  it  could  not  be  done. 
The  things  about  which  one  really  feels  have  so  small  a  part 
in  speeches.  So,  when  he  found  himself  confronted  by  the 
most  sympathetic  audience  before  which  an  actor  ever  ap- 
peared, he  learnt  that  all  his  art,  technique  and  experience 
availed  nothing.  Those  dear,  honest,  familiar  faces  dimmed 
as  he  looked  toward  them  into  a  grey  wet  mist.  Somewhere 
in  his  throat  a  new  pulse  started  to  throb — and  throbbed 
burningly. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  shook  his  head  like  a  child  who  is 
lost. 

"I — I  can't,"  he  said.  Then,  with  a  feeble,  impotent  ges- 
ture of  farewell,  he  turned  away. 

"Three  cheers  for  him,"  gasped  Freddie  Manning,  his 
face  scarlet  with  emotion. 

And  Eliphalet  Cardomay  bolted  from  the  theatre. 

During  the  performance  he  had  managed  to  say  a  few 
words,  individually,  to  those  old  corner-stones  of  his  dra- 


256  THE    OLD    CARD 

matic  edifice  who,  for  years  and  years,  had  worked  the  pro- 
vincial theatres  under  his  managership.  That  had  been 
hard  enough,  God  knows.  Old  Kitterson  made  no  bones 
about  it,  and  frankly  howled  when  Eliphalet  gripped  him  by 
the  hand. 

Scarcely  less  reserved  was  Freddie  Manning — the  least 
emotional  of  creatures. 

"I'm  hating  it,  Guv'nor,"  he  said. 

He  kissed  all  the  ladies  of  the  company  and  had  a  kind 
word  for  each,  but  Mornice  he  steadfastly  avoided,  for  there 
was  a  limit  to  his  powers  of  endurance,  and  he  wished  to 
escape  without  any  show  of  weakness. 

The  last  person  he  spoke  to  was  his  dresser. 

"I  won't  sleep  at  night,  sir,  for  worrying  about  you  and 
your  things.  You  won't  never  be  able  to  look  after  yourself 
proper." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Eliphalet.  "I  shall  miss  you,  of  course, 
but  it  will  come  easier  after  a  while.  You — you've  been 
more  than  attentive,  Potter,  and  just  a  little  parting 

gift "  He  pressed  a  five-pound  note  into  the  dresser's 

hand — a  note  that  Potter  secretly  replaced  in  his  master's 
pocket  while  helping  him,  for  the  last  time,  into  the  big  fur 
overcoat. 

Eliphalet  Cardomay's  great  farewell  tour,  with  seventy- 
five  pounds  a  week  spent  on  advertisement,  was  over  and 
done  with,  and  out  of  the  wreckage  he  salved  four  hundred 
pounds. 

He  did  not  raise  a  wail  over  the  loss — he  was  too  game; 
but  in  his  inner  self  was  a  tiny  cry  of  disappointment. 

He  had  always  cherished  the  belief  that  when  he  retired 
it  would  be  to  go  to  the  first  real  home  he  had  ever  known. 

The  home,  as  he  pictured  it,  was  a  little  detached  villa 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  257 

at  New  Brighton.  It  would  face  the  sea  and  there  would 
be  tamarisk  bushes,  forming  a  guard  of  honour,  from  the 
garden  gate  to  the  front  door.  He  had  worked  out  how 
each  room  would  look — just  what  furniture  and  pictures 
there  would  be — as  though  it  were  a  scene  in  a  play.  Every 
detail  was  cut  and  dried  and  ordered  in  his  mind.  This 
was  to  be  his  compensation  for  the  sacrifice  of  his  profes- 
sion. And  now ! 

Four  hundred  pounds  and  his  lonely  self  were  all  that 
remained. 

For  about  six  weeks  Eliphalet  Cardomay  drifted  aim- 
lessly. He  had  nowhere  to  go  and  nothing  to  do.  Late 
hours  having  been  the  habit  of  his  lifetime,  it  was  impossible 
to  go  early  to  bed,  and  the  empty  evenings  hung  like  lead 
upon  his  hands. 

A  letter  or  two  came  from  America,  forwarded  from  his 
old  lodging,  and  these  were  the  only  bright  spots  on  a  deso- 
late landscape. 

Sunday  was  a  day  that  bothered  him  dreadfully.  Every 
Sunday  for  forty  years  he  had  been  accustomed  to  the 
rush  of  packing — of  cabs — porters  and  long  train-journeys. 
To  sit  idle  in  his  rooms  and  read  the  Referee,  which  in  the 
past  had  often  seemed  a  very  desirable  thing  to  do,  proved 
in  practice  a  very  trying  ordeal.  He  fretted  all  the  morn- 
ing with  a  sense  of  important  duties  neglected,  and  usually 
finished  up  by  walking  to  the  nearest  railway  station  to 
watch  the  theatrical  trains  pull  out.  Then  he  would  return 
and  settle  down,  with  a  sigh,  to  an  afternoon  of  irksome 
inactivity. 

He  had  never  been  a  man  with  a  wide  circle  of  friends, 
and  the  few  acquaintances  he  met  mostly  took  their  pleas- 
ures by  leaning  across  the  bar  or  hiving  round  the  cheese  at 


258     ,  THE   OLD    CARD 

a  Bodega — a  practice  which  he  showed  no  disposition  to 
emulate.  In  consequence  he  was  thrown  entirely  on  his 
own  resources,  and,  as  a  result,  there  set  in  a  kind  of  incipi- 
ent melancholy.  He  began  to  speculate  how  long  four  hun- 
dred pounds  would  last,  at  an  expenditure  of  thirty  shillings 
a  week. 

"And  three  years  of  this  sort  of  thing  is  about  as  much 
as  we  could  stand,  old  boy,"  he  said,  when  he  looked  at  the 
result  of  the  calculation. 

So  he  continued  to  drift  in  a  melancholy  isolation,  until 
one  day,  upon  a  bench  in  Roundhay  Park,  he  espied  a 
familiar  figure. 

It  was  a  man — or,  more  truthfully,  what  was  left  of  a 
man — poor,  shivering,  down-and-out.  But  Eliphalet  needed 
no  second  glance  to  assure  him  that  here  was  Sefton  Bui- 
more — old  Sefton,  who  had  done  him  a  good  turn — old 
Sefton,  squeezed  from  the  boards  to  make  room  for  younger 
blood  and  fresher  funniosities. 

"Sefton!"  said  Eliphalet,  stretching  out  his  hand. 

A  pair  of  watery  eyes  were  raised  jerkily  and- scanned  his 
features.  Then  the  old  fellow  came  to  his  feet  with  aston- 
ishing vigour.  Lifting  his  right  hand  high  in  the  air,  he 
brought  it  down  whack  into  the  extended  palm,  covering 
it  instantly  with  an  embracing  grasp  from  his  left.  It  was 
an  old  stage  formula,  executed  with  technical  perfection. 
(Try  it  yourself;  you  will  find  it  is  none  too  easy  to  do.) 

"The  Old  Card.    By  God,  it's  the  Old  Card!" 

There  was  a  world  of  enthusiasm  in  the  tone — then  sud- 
denly his  manner  changed  to  an  extremity  of  confidence. 

"This  is  uncommonly  fortunate.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
old  son,  I've  been  a  bit  unlucky  lately.  But  the  Profession 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  259 

sticks  together,  eh?  For  old  sake's  sake — and  if — if  you 
can't  lend  me  ten  bob,  five  'ud  do!" 

"Sit  down— let's  talk,"  said  Eliphalet. 

So  they  sat  together  on  the  park  bench  and  talked,  and 
a  hundred  old  stage  memories  and  old  stage  personalities 
were  dug  out  from  the  unforgotten  past. 

"Aha!  ha!  fine  fellows — fine  fellows,  all  of  'em.  Tisn't 
what  it  was  in  our  young  days.  The  Profession's  going  to 
the  dogs,  Cardomay,  old  son,  going  to  the  dogs  fast." 

"Fate's  been  unkind  to  you?"  queried  Eliphalet. 

"Unkind!  Ha!  I  can  remember  turning  up  my  nose 
at  forty  pounds  a  week — and  look  at  me  now!"  He  pulled 
out  two  empty  trouser  pockets  and  turned  the  palms  of 
his  hands  up. 

Eliphalet  considered  for  a  moment. 

"Bulmore,"  he  said,  "I  have  a  bit — not  much,  but  a  bit, 
and,  old  man,  I'm  sick  for  someone  to  talk  to.  I  worked  out 
that,  taking  things  easy,  I've  enough  to  last  about  three 
years — alone.  Well,  one-and-a-half  in  company  would  please 
me  better.  Will  you  share?" 

"Mean  it?" 

"Here's  my  hand." 

"By  God,  the  Old  Card's  a  trump!"  cried  Bulmore,  taking 
it. 

It  seemed  that  years  had  fallen  away  from  him  in  a 
moment. 

"D'you  know,"  he  went  on,  "I  haven't  tasted  solids  for 
a  couple  of  days." 

"Tea  is  waiting  at  home  now,"  said  Eliphalet. 

Sefton  Bulmore  rose  at  once. 

"And  I  hope  that  home  isn't  far  away,  either,"  he  flashed, 
with  a  touch  of  his  old  humour. 


260  THE   OLD    CARD 

During  the  tram-ride  Bulmore's  spirits  rose  by  leaps  and 
bounds. 

"Tell  you  what,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  and  I  together — 
tragedy  and  comedy — we've  the  elements  of  a  fortune  be- 
tween us — a  fortune,  my  boy.  We'll  write  a  play — Cinema 
— pooh! — No  good  to  anyone!  We'll  write  such  a  play 
as  was  never  written  before.  And  if  we  don't  knock 
'em !  By  God!" 

A  light  danced  in  Eliphalet's  eyes — the  light  of  reviving 
enthusiasm. 

"It's  an  idea,  Sefton,"  he  said.  "An  idea.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  we  shall  be  wanted." 

They  bought  watercress  for  tea,  and  cucumber,  sardines 
and  potted  meat,  so  it  is  no  small  wonder  that  the  meal  was 
a  success.  Sefton  Bulmore  fairly  expanded  under  its  influ- 
ence. 

Eliphalet  arranged  with  his  landlady  for  an  extra  bed  to 
be  made  up  in  his  room. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "shall  we  fetch  your  things? — and 
you  can  settle  in  comfortably." 

For  answer  Bulmore  produced  a  pile  of  pawn-tickets  and 
laid  them  on  the  table. 

"That's  the  lot,"  he  answered,  "save  what  I  stand  up  in." 

Eliphalet  went  through  the  tickets  to  see  what  most  es- 
sentially should  be  redeemed. 

"You'd  like  your  ulster,  eh?" 

"It's  been  a  good  friend  to  me — still,  two  pound  ten, 
y>know." 

"Not  another  word,"  said  Eliphalet. 

When  they  emerged  from  the  pawn-shop  Sefton  Bul- 
more was  clad  in  a  fur-collared  coat  which,  despite  a  shade 


THE    FINAL   CURTAIN  261 

of  wear  about  the  cuffs  and  elbows,  was  a  garment  any  actor 
might  be  proud  to  wear. 

"And  now,"  said  Eliphalet,  "we'll  make  for  home  and 
have  our  first  talk  about  the  play." 

There  was  a  note  of  disappointment  in  Bulmore's  acqui- 
escence, that  called  for  a  querying  eyebrow  from  Eliphalet. 

"I  was  only  thinking — just  to-night — old  friends  re-meet- 
ing— and — as  a  little  celebration "  He  tilted  his  head 

suggestively  toward  the  brilliantly-lighted  windows  of  the 
Goat  Hotel. 

"I  never  do,"  said  Eliphalet. 

"No,  no,  I  understand — but — to  the  success  of  the  play— 
a  couple  of  glasses!" 

Eliphalet  shook  his  head. 

"You  go,"  he  said.  "Here,  take "  And  he  pressed 

some  silver  into  Bulmore's  palm.  "I'd — I'd  rather  not." 

"It's  sad  work  drinking  alone." 

"I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  home  all 
the  sooner,  then." 

It  was  after  eleven  before  Bulmore  returned,  and  bed  was 
the  obvious  prescription.  So  Eliphalet  helped  him  undress, 
and  listened  to  a  good  deal  of  maudlin  matter,  without 
which  the  evening  would  have  been  a  happier  one. 

Next  morning  they  set  to  work  mapping  out  a  scheme  for 
their  future.  Being  accustomed  to  work  at  night,  they  made 
their  plans  accordingly. 

They  would  breakfast  late,  partake  of  their  one  serious 
meal  at  three  o'clock,  enjoy  a  cup  of  tea  about  half-past  five, 
and  devote  the  evening  hours  to  work  upon  the  play.  At 
midnight  the  traditional  Welsh  rarebit,  washed  down  with 
a  jug  of  good  milky  cocoa,  would  be  served — then  a  pipe 
and  bed.  To  relieve  any  embarrassment  in  giving  or  receiv- 


262  THE   OLD   CARD 

ing,  Eliphalet  arranged  that  each  should  draw  the  same 
weekly  sum,  and  share  alike  in  all  things. 

Thus  the  terms  of  partnership  were  laid  down,  and  to- 
gether they  set  about  to  write  such  a  play  as  would  stagger 
the  world. 

The  plot  was  everything,  they  decided,  and  so  to  the  mak- 
ing of  the  plot  were  dedicated  countless  hours  and  an  incred- 
ible quantity  of  paper. 

As  the  work  proceeded  Bulmore's  spirits  grew  apace. 

"We've  got  'em!"  he  would  shout.  "There's  a  fortune 
here,  old  man."  And  so  great  would  be  his  enthusiasm 
that  it  was  an  ail-too  frequent  occurrence  for  him  to  aban- 
don work  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening  and  drink  copious 
draughts  to  their  inevitable  success. 

These  little  excesses  were  the  cause  of  no  small  concern 
to  Eliphalet  Cardomay.  Bulmore  would  often  spend  his 
entire  weekly  allowance  in  a  night  at  the  bar;  thus,  when 
the  day  for  settling  their  accounts  arrived,  it  would  be 
necessary  for  Eliphalet  to  draw  on  his  dwindling  principal 
to  make  good  the  deficit. 

Once  the  plot  was  finally  determined,  the  actual  writing 
of  the  play  began.  In  this  Eliphalet  did  most  of  the  work. 
Bulmore's  temperament  was  such  that  he  could  not  sit  still, 
and  must  needs  pace  up  and  down,  gesticulating  and  pour- 
ing forth  a  ceaseless  stream  of  red-hot  ideas. 

In  itself  this  method  proved  a  somewhat  disturbing  factor, 
and  tended  to  retard  the  progression  of  the  work;  but  Eli- 
phalet strove  manfully,  and  some  eleven  months  from  the 
day  of  their  first  meeting  had  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  sub- 
scribing the  word  'Curtain"  on  the  final  page. 

Then  he  and  his  partner  gripped  hands  with  a  pride  too 
full  for  words. 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  263 

"Read  it  aloud,  Eliphalet,  old  man,"  said  Bulmore.  "Let's 
have  it!  Let  it  go!  Here,  old  man — wait  a  minute!"  He 
rushed  from  the  room,  returning  a  moment  later  with  the 
breathless  landlady,  Mrs.  Wattle,  and  her  anaemic  niece, 
Annie.  These  he  literally  flung  (no  other  word  is  possible) 
one  at  each  end  of  the  plush  settee.  "Don't  make  a  sound," 
he  warned  them,  with  a  threatening  gesture.  "You  are  going 
to  hear  the  finest  play  that  ever  was  written — a  master- 
piece! On  you  go,  Eliphalet,  with  all  your  voice,  and  all 
you've  got.  Give  'em  a  bit  of  the  old." 

So  Eliphalet  filled  his  lungs,  and  read.  Both  he  and  his 
audience  were-  in  tears  when  he  intoned  the  final  heart- 
rending passages. 

Then  he  closed  the  book  and  laid  his  hand  upon  it — his 
eyes  filled  with  the  light  of  triumph. 

"What  did  you  think  of  it,  Annie?'  demanded  Mrs.  Wat- 
tle, when  she  and  her  niece  were  restored  to  the  kitchen. 

"Be-utiful,  be-utiful,"  replied  Annie.  "It  was  just  like 
any  drama  you  might  see  on  the  stage." 

There  was  no  intended  satire  in  this  truest  of  criticisms. 

The  reading  had  proved  altogether  too  much  for  Sefton 
Bulmore,  and  being  so  elevated  by  the  marvels  of  their 
achievement,  he  went  forth  and  indulged  in  a  debauch,  be- 
side which  his  previous  excesses  were  as  child's  play. 

Eliphalet  sat  alone  with  the  glory  he  had  created.  He 
turned  his  eyes  to  the  level  of  the  gods,  and  prayed  aloud. 

"Be  pleased  to  bless  our  work,  O  Lord!" 

Then  a  cold  tremor  crept  down  his  spine — brought  to 
existence  by  the  sight  of  an  unopened  letter  leaning  against 
the  clock.  He  knew  what  it  was — a  statement  of  credit 
from  the  bank— and  had  delayed  breaking  the  seal,  until 
the  play  should  be  finished,  lest,  perhaps,  the  tidings  should 


264  THE    OLD    CARD 

divert  his  attention  from  the  final  scene.  But  now  that 
reason  no  longer  existed.  So  he  rose  and  tore  open  the 
envelope. 

Fifty-seven  pounds  was  all  that  was  left  between  two  old 
men  and  starvation.  Almost  miraculously  the  rest  had 
melted  away.  Fifty-seven  pounds — and  the  Play. 

"AND  the  play,  old  boy,"  said  Eliphalet.  He  tore  the 
sheet  in  two  and  dropped  it  in  the  fire;  then,  picking  up  the 
manuscript,  made  his  way  to  bed. 

That  night  he  slept  with  a  fortune  beneath  his  pillow. 
Of  course  the  play  had  to  be  typed.  They  were  too  old  at 
the  game  to  risk  spoiling  chances  by  sending  it  in  MS.  form. 
The  bill  for  the  typing  was  four  pounds — a  big  lump  from 
a  capital  of  fifty-seven. 

Eliphalet  had  a  long  talk  with  Bulmore,  and  pointed  out 
the  need  for  economy  during  the  next  few  weeks,  while  man- 
agers were  considering  their  work.  Bulmore  was  quite  huffy 
about  it. 

"Seems  a  sin  not  to  have  a  good  time,  with  a  fortune  like 
this  waiting  to  be  picked  up,"  he  grumbled. 

But  Eliphalet  was  firm,  and  for  the  first  time  a  slight  es- 
trangement arose  between  them.  To  mark  his  disapproval, 
Bulmore  went  out  and  got  drunk. 

The  three  copies  of  the  play  were  duly  registered  and 
posted  to  the  three  likeliest  managers. 

"I'm  sending  the  original  manuscript  to  Mornice,"  said 
Eliphalet,  "I  would  like  her  to  see  the  part  she  might  have 
played,  had  she  not  given  up  the  legitimate  stage  to  play  in 
pictures." 

So  he  packed  it  up,  with  a  fatherly  little  note,  and  des- 
patched it  to  Mornice,  c/o  Raphaeli  Film  Company,  at  some 
unpronounceable  city  in  the  United  States. 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  265 

Then,  in  a  fever  of  excitement,  they  sat  down  and  waited 
for  the  herald  of  their  fortunes  to  sound  the  trumpet  of 
success. 

And  quite  suddenly  Sefton  Bulmore  was  taken  ill.  The 
first-class  doctor  whom  Eliphalet  sent  for  at  once,  shook 
his  head  over  the  case. 

"The  machinery  is  worn  out,"  he  said.  "You  can  do 
nothing,  Mr.  Cardomay,  beyond  care  and  attention.  A 
nurse  may  be  necessary  later  on.  Give  him  plenty  of  light 
food — chickens,  fish,  and  so  forth,  and  above  all  keep  him 
cheerful." 

"What's  he  say?"  demanded  Bulmore,  when  Eliphalet 
returned  after  seeing  the  doctor  out. 

"That  you  must  take  things  easily  for  a  while." 

"Ha!  that's  all  very  well,  but  rehearsals  will  be  starting 
soon,  and  I've  got  to  be  there,  y'know — I  must  be  there. 
Any  news?" 

"Not  at  present.    There's  hardly  time  yet." 

"A  fortnight.     Ought  to  be  hearing  something  soon." 

"And  depend  upon  it,  we  shall,"  soothed  Eliphalet. 

And  he  was  right,  for  the  first  copy  was  returned  that 
evening,  with  a  curt  note  of  refusal. 

Eliphalet  took  it  into  the  sitting-room  and  read  it  again 
and  again.  It  was  unbelievable.  Power,  the  likeliest  of 
all  managers,  had  refused  his  play. 

"Can't  have  read  it,"  thought  Eliphalet.  "Can't  pos- 
sibly have  read  it!  I  mustn't  let  Sefton  know  this." 

So  he  put  the  play  in  a  fresh  envelope  and  despatched  it 
elsewhere,  and  to  salve  his  conscience  for  the  deceit  he 
meant  to  perpetrate,  he  bought  Bulmore  some  hothouse 
grapes  and  a  bottle  of  calf's-foot  jelly. 

Poor  old  Bulmore  was  an  indifferent  patient— subject  to 


266  THE   OLD   CARD 

fits  of  depression  and  excitement.  The  sound  of  the  post- 
man's knock  in  the  street  brought  him  to  his  elbow  at  once. 

"Down  you  go,  down  you  go!"  he  would  cry;  then  when 
Eliphalet  returned  empty-handed,  he  would  work  himself 
into  a  passion  and  curse  the  dilatoriness  of  managers  or 
accuse  Eliphalet  of  having  addressed  the  envelopes  wrongly. 

Then,  one  day,  about  three  weeks  after  his  illness  began, 
two  more  copies  of  the  play  were  returned.  In  one  there 
was  no  comment  at  all,  and  in  the  other  a  letter  stating 
that  a  market  for  such  stereotyped  work  no  longer  existed. 

"Oh,  oh!"  cried  Eliphalet,  with  the  tone  of  a  wounded 
child.  "They  don't  understand." 

"There  was  something  that  time,"  exclaimed  Bulmore, 
as  he  slowly  entered  the  room.  "Quick — what  was  it?" 

"Lambert  b,as  written,"  he  said.  "Wants  to  see  me  in 
Bradford — to-morrow." 

The  old  comedian's  body  relaxed,  and  he  gave  a  sigh  of 
wonderful  relief.  "Good  God!  To-morrow,  eh?  That  will 
be  to  discuss  terms — yes.  You'll  have  to  be  firm — he's  slip- 
pery— '11  want  watching.  Pity  I'm  like  this.  Pity — pity!" 

Then  followed  a  mass  of  details  that  Eliphalet  must  be 
sure  to  observe,  and  in  the  midst  of  them  the  doctor  arrived. 

"You'll  want  that  nurse,"  he  said,  as  Eliphalet  conducted 
him  downstairs.  "He's  very  rocky — practically  living  on 
nervous  energy.  A  bit  intemperate  in  the  past,  I  should  say. 
Well,  well!  I'll  send  her  in  to-night.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Eliphalet,  and  turned  into  the  sitting- 
room  to  review  the  situation.  At  the  present  rate  of  ex- 
penditure his  finances  could  scarcely  be  relied  upon  to  last 
much  longer.  Yet  what  could  he  do?  Bulmore  must  have 
everything  he  wanted,  of  course,  and  the  lie  about  the  play 
must  be  maintained. 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  267 

He  r«-addressed  the  two  returned  copies  and  posted  them, 
with  a  silent,  fervent  prayer.  There  were  but  six  managers 
in  all  to  whom  the  play  would  be  of  possible  use,  and  half 
of  these  had  already  refused. 

"Even  chances,  old  boy;  we  mustn't  throw  up  the  sponge 
yet." 

Then  he  returned  to  minister  to  his  partner. 

"I'll  have  some  champagne  to-day — champagne,  a  sole, 
and  a  dish  of  quails.  We  can  afford  'em  now,"  croaked  old 
Bulmore.  "No  longer  any  need  for  economy." 

And  to  maintain  the  lie  Eliphalet  bought  all  he  asked  for, 
and  more  besides. 

When  the  nurse  came  he  told  her  of  his  deception,  and 
between  them  they  kept  the  story  going.  Eliphalet  invented 
a  wonderful  interview  with  Lambert,  in  which  he  had  asked 
for  and  been  accorded  exceptional  terms.  Rehearsals  would 
be  beginning  in  a  very  short  while 

"And,  by  Jove,  Sefton,  we  shall  have  such  a  cast!" 

And  so  the  poor  fraud  went  on,  and  twice  more  the  play 
was  returned. 

It  was  almost  more  than  Eliphalet  could  endure,  but  he 
kept  a  firm  lower  lip,  and  saw  it  through. 

About  three  o'clock  one  night  the  nurse  awoke  him. 

"I  think  he's  going,"  she  said. 

Old  Sefton  Bulmore  was  propped  up  in  bed,  and  looked 
a  very  sick  man. 

"Laddie!"  he  gasped.  "It's  up!  Fate's  cheating  me— 
you — you've  been  a  real  friend— but  I'm  paying  it  all  back. 
Here — under  my  pillow!" 

Eliphalet  drew  from  beneath  the  pillow  a  scrap  of  paper, 
scrawled  over  with  the  words,  "I  bequeath  all  the  interests 
that  will  accrue  to  me  from  the  play,  'Right  Triumphant,' 


268  THE   OLD    CARD 

to  my  friend,  colleague  and  benefactor,  Eliphalet  Cardo- 
may." 

"It's  a  fortune,  o'  man — a  fortune." 

Eliphalet  took  the  drooping  hand  from  the  coverlet  and 
grasped  it. 

"It  is  beautiful  of  you,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  then  Bulmore  stirred  slightly. 

"Make  it  a  good  funeral,"  he  whispered. 

"I  will,  old  man." 

As  a  final  touch  of  irony,  the  last  remaining  copy  of 
"Right  Triumphant"  was  returned  a  few  moments  before 
Bulmore's  coffin  was  carried  down  the  steps.  And  Eliphalet 
Cardomay  dropped  it  into  the  grave  beside  his  dead  com- 
rade. 

It  would  be  profitless  and  painful  to  follow  Eliphaiet 
through  the  job-seeking,  grey  underworld  in  which,  during 
the  following  months,  he  drifted.  And  while  he  drifted, 
he  lost  heart  and  his  pride  began  to  forsake  him.  Eliphalet 
Cardomay  disappeared,  and  left  no  address.  He  lacked  the 
courage  to  confess  his  real  state  to  Mornice.  One  deception 
makes  another  easy,  and  about  the  time  he  had  lied  to 
Bulmore  about  the  play,  he  had  written  in  answer  to  Morn- 
ice's  constantly-expressed  reproaches  regarding  his  dilatori- 
ness  in  taking  the  little  house,  to  say  he  had  at  last  secured 
the  villa  of  his  dreams.  To  make  the  story  good,  he  des- 
cribed the  decorations  of  every  room  from  attic  to  base- 
ment, and  even  threw  in  a  picture  of  the  tamarisks  in  the 
front  garden.  There  had  been  a  chance  then  that  the  play 
would  bring  his  words  to  truth,  but  that  chance  had  gone, 
and  he  could  carry  on  the  deception  no  longer.  Thus  with 
his  disappearance  the  sweet  ties  that  had  existed  between 
himself  and  his  little  adopted  daughter  were  severed. 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  269 

Somehow  or  another  he  managed  to  eke  out  an  existence 
—but  it  was  existence,  and  nothing  more.  Only  once  did 
he  try  to  obtain  work  upon  the  stage,  and  the  experience 
was  so  humiliating  he  did  not  repeat  it.  Somehow  he  had 
managed  to  preserve  his  old  friends,  the  fur  coat,  the 
broad-brimmed  hat  and  the  cane  which  had  supported 
him  for  so  many  years.  He  obtained  an  interview  at  a 
Bedford  Street  Agency  with  a  flaccid,  swag-bellied  Semite, 
who  wore  a  white  waistcoat  and  check  uppers  to  his  glossy 
boots. 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  said  this  gentleman,  when  Eliphalet 
roundly  pronounced  his  full  titles.  "And  there's  nothing 
for  your  sort  here.  I'm  looking  over  a  bunch  of  supers 
at  five  o'clock,  and  if  you  care  to  line  up  with  them  you  can 
take  a  chance." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eliphalet  gravely,  "but  I  think  not." 

"Then,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  get  out.    We're  busy  here." 

And  Eliphalet  retired  with  dignity — as  befitted  one  who 
had  held  provincial  audiences  for  nearly  half  a  century,  and 
was  part  author  of  the  finest  play  ever  written. 

Fate  was  a  little  kindlier  after  that,  for  he  found  employ- 
ment in  a  tiny  Brixton  paper  shop,  owned  by  a  widow.  She, 
poor  soul,  was  so  occupied  by  her  husband's  legacy,  a  girl 
of  three  and  two  twin  boys,  that  to  attend  to  the  shop  was 
an  impossibility.  So  Eliphalet  sat  on  a  kitchen  chair  be- 
hind the  counter  and  dispensed  halfpenny  journals,  bottles 
of  gum,  penny  note-books,  and  pencils  with  little  tin  covers 
to  them. 

In  these  surroundings  he  was  moderately  happy.  There 
were  plenty  of  theatrical  papers  to  read,  for  the  neighbour- 
hood was  patronised  by  the  lesser  geniuses  of  the  dramatic 
and  music-hall  world.  In  a  way  he  became  something  of  a 


270  THE   OLD   CARD 

local  character,  and  many  an  old  "pro"  would  step  in  of  a 
morning  to  exchange  reminiscences.  Once  or  twice  he  was 
recognised,  but  on  these  occasions  he  always  begged  his 
discoverers  not  to  disclose  his  identity. 

"It  is  not  that  I  am  ashamed,"  he  said,  "but  there  are 
many  I  knew  who,  if  they  heard,  would  pity  me — and 
pity  is  a  quality  more  blessed  to  bestow  than  to  receive." 

So  his  wishes  were  respected,  and  for  six  tranquil  months 
the  Old  Card  sold  his  papers  and  followed  in  the  dramatic 
columns  the  movements  of  members  of  his  old  companies. 
Thus  he  learned  that  Freddie  Manning  had  abandoned  the 
Road  for  the  business  managership  of  the  Royal  Theatre, 
New  Brighton. 

"Good  boy,  Manning,"  he  said.  "That's  capital.  New 
Brighton,  too ! "  Rather  a  twisted  smile  came  to  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  for  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  that  Dream 
Villa,  facing  the  sea.  It  would  have  been  very  pleasant 
with  Manning  so  close  at  hand,  dropping  in  of  an  evening, 
maybe,  for  a  bit  of  late  supper  and  a  chat  about  old  times. 
Through  the  same  medium  he  learnt  how  Mornice  had 
sprung  to  Fame  as  a  Film  Artiste  and  was  commanding  a 
truly  Chaplinesque  salary. 

This  was  a  matter  that  gave  him  less  pleasure,  for,  al- 
though rejoicing  in  her  success,  he  could  not  conquer  the 
underlying  conviction  that  the  Cinema  was  the  bastard 
child  of  the  stage,  and  an  ignoble  art. 

"I  wonder  what  she  thought  of  my  play,"  he  ruminated. 
"I  would  like  to  have  known." 

One  day  there  burst  into  the  shop  a  little  music-hall  co- 
median named  Dwyer.  He  was  one  of  the  very  few  who 
had  recognised  Eliphalet,  and  something  of  friendship  had 
sprung  up  between  them. 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  271 

"Seen  this  week's  Foot-Lights?"  he  demanded.  Then, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  "They're  advertising  for 
you." 

He  produced  a  crumpled  periodical,  flung  it  on  the  counter 
and  pointed  to  a  certain  passage  with  a  nicotine-stained  fore- 
finger. 

"If  Eliphalet  Cardomay  will  call  upon  or  communicate 
with  Messrs,  Newman  &  Stranger,  108A,  Henrietta  Street, 
W.  C.,  he  will  hear  something  greatly  to  his  advantage." 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Eliphalet.  "I  wonder  what  that 
$neans.  I  must  step  round  there  this  evening." 

"You'll  step  round  now,  old  cock." 

"I  can  hardly  leave  the  shop " 

"That  for  a  tale!"  yelled  the  little  comedian;  then,  mak- 
ing a  megaphone  of  his  hands,  he  shouted,  "Mother! "  at  the 
very  top  of  his  voice. 

In  response  to  the  call  the  owner  of  the  shop  appeared,  a 
baby  in  her  arms  and  the  little  girl  towed  along  by  her 
skirts. 

"He's  come  into  a  fortune — see  this!  Mustn't  wait  a 
minute — You  can  spare  him.  Tell  him  to  get  his  hat! 
Shop '11  look  after  itself!" 

Infected  by  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  Mrs.  Nelson 
said  he  must  go  at  once.  Furthermore,  she  gave  Eliphalet 
the  baby  to  hold,  while  she  brushed  his  hat  and  coat  and 
polished  the  knob  of  his  stick. 

"I'll  stand  a  cab,"  said  Dwyer,  "for  I  won't  let  you  out 
of  my  sight  till  I've  heard  the  best."  With  which,  he  half 
swallowed  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand  and  produced  a 
whistle  so  piercing  that  a  taxi  seemed  to  spring  from  no- 
where. 

Bread  cast  upon  the  waters  returns  after  many  days. 


272  THE   OLD    CARD 

There  was  a  certain  quality  in  "Right  Triumphant"  which, 
even  though  the  stage  desired  it  no  longer,  was  still  of  an 
order  to  find  favour  in  the  hearts  of  cinema  audiences. 

The  manuscript  copy  of  the  play,  sent  to  Mornice,  was 
read,  at  her  request,  by  Mr.  Raphaeli,  who  at  once  realised, 
with  her  in  the  leading  part,  a  film  version  might  be  played 
with  every  hope  of  success. 

Mr.  Raphaeli  was  seldom  wrong,  and  on  this  occasion  he 
was  "righter"  than  usual.  Eliphalet  Cardomay  had  dis- 
appeared, and  enquiry  failed  to  locate  him,  but  to  his  credit, 
on  a  ten  per  cent,  royalty,  a  sum  of  three  thousand  pounds 
had  accumulated. 

"She  looked  after  your  interests  pretty  closely,"  remarked 
Mr.  Stranger  of  Henrietta  Street.  "I  think  you  may  rely 
on  that  sum  doubling  itself  before  the  interest  on  the  film 
expires.  By  the  way,  here's  a  bundle  of  letters  from  her 
addressed  to  you." 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  was  wonderfully  calm  during  the 
interview,  and  did  not  betray  by  word  or  gesture  the  slight- 
est excitement,  but  his  fingers  trembled  a  trifle  as  he  took 
the  letters.  He  received  the  address  of  a  firm  of  solicitors, 
who  were  looking  after  the  money  on  his  behalf,  shook 
hands,  and  walked  from  the  office. 

On  the  pavement  outside  he  conveyed  the  news  to  the 
little  comedian  who,  in  his  enthusiasm,  performed  a  war- 
dance  which  drew  toward  them  a  massive  policeman,  com- 
plete with  warnings. 

"But  you  don't  look  half  pleased  enough,"  he  gasped, 
when  Eliphalet  took  his  arm  and  drew  him  away. 

"I  am — I  am — very  pleased  and  very  grateful.  It's  just 
a  shade  of  disappointment  that  the  play  should  not  have 
made  its  success  on  the  legitimate  stage."  But  the  cloud 


THE   FINAL   CURTAIN  273 

faded  almost  before  it  came  in  the  bright  blue  horizon  of 
the  future. 

A  twinkle  showed  in  his  eyes. 

"Dwyer,"  he  said,  "in  all  my  life  I  have  never  yet  bor- 
rowed from  a  fellow-artist,  but  I  am  wondering  now  if  you 
would  lend  me  a  sovereign." 

"Whatever  you  want,  old  man;  whatever  you  want." 

"Simpson's  is  just  over  there,  and  I  was  thinking — an 
undercut  from  a  saddle  of  mutton — you  and  I  together — 
a  little  celebration,  what?" 

"Fine!"  echoed  Dwyer.  "Take  what  you  want  out  of 
this "  producing  a  fiver  from  a  Friday  night  envelope. 

As  they  turned  into  Bedford  Street  there  were  a  few  old 
down-and-outers  of  the  profession,  leaning  disconsolately 
against  the  wall  of  an  agent's  office. 

Eliphalet  jerked  his  head  toward  them. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  did?"  he  questioned. 

"Better  still!"  shouted  Dwyer  enthusiastically.  So  Eli- 
phalet crossed  the  street. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  addressing  the  group,  "will  you  take  a  bit 
of  lunch  with  me?  Just  to  talk  over  old  times." 

Eliphalet  Cardomay  has  the  pleasantest  villa  in  New 
Brighton,  with  tamarisks  forming  a  guard  of  honour  to  the 
front  door.  The  rooms  inside  are  just  what  you  would 
expect — cosy,  warm,  hospitable.  Sir  Henry  Irving's  signed 
portrait,  as  Thomas  a  Becket,  hangs  over  the  fireplace  in 
the  parlour,  and  there  are  many  others  of  great-hearted,  if 
less  celebrated,  performers  dotted  about  the  walls  in  com- 
forting disorder. 

Prominent  in  the  centre  of  the  mantelpiece  is  the  por- 
trait of  a  baby,  and  scrawled  across  one  corner  in  Mornice's 


274  THE   OLD   CARD 

go-as-you-please  hand  is  written  "Eliphalet  to  his  grand- 
dads." Probably  this  photograph  is  his  most  cherished  pos- 
session, and  he  is  justly  proud  that  so  bold  a  name  should 
rise  afresh  in  a  new  generation.  Mornice  even  on  the  occa- 
sion when  she  and  Ronald  and  the  baby  came  over  from  the 
States  and  spent  a  glorious  three  weeks  at  New  Brighton, 
never  divulged  the  secret  that  this  wonderful  child  was 
ordinarily  termed  "-Potkins." 

To  minister  to  his  wants  are  Potter,  his  one-time  dresser, 
and  Potter's  wife — she  was  wardrobe-mistress  in  the  com- 
pany for  many  a  year.  Between  them  they  look  to  it  that 
the  Old  Card  is  kept  out  of  draughts — has  his  socks  scrupu- 
lously darned — his  sheets  aired,  and  is  served  only  with 
the  dishes  he  likes  best. 

You  may  see  him  any  day  you  care  to  look,  walking  up 
and  down  the  parade  with  a  firm  step  and  his  hat  at  a 
fearless  angle.  Under  his  arm  is  the  ivory-knobbed  gold- 
mounted  cane  of  quaint  design,  and  he  shows  a  marked 
favour  for  fur  coats,  of  which  he  possesses  more  than  one. 

It  is  rare  indeed  for  a  Saturday  to  pass  without  Freddie 
Manning  looking  in  for  an  hour  after  the  show.  And_ 
whether  it  be  a  supper  of  tripe,  cooked  in  milk,  a  Welsh  rare- 
bit, or  a  dish  of  sizzling  liver-and-bacon,  it  all  goes  down 
with  equal  appreciation,  to  an  accompaniment  of  happy 
reminiscences  that  mostly  begin  with: 

"Remember  that  time  in  '93 — we  put  up  'The  Silver 
King'  the  following  season "  And  somewhere  each  eve- 
ning as  regular  as  clockwork 

"Say  what  you  will,  the  stage  isn't  what  it  was,  Manning; 
it  isn't  what  it  was." 


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